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lacydaydream · 2 days ago

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What Happens in The Dark

⤷ mark meachum

mark meachum x fem!reader

req: Hiya! I absolutely LOVE LOVE LOVEEEEE your writing for mark Meachum and I had an idea for a fic, so I’m thinking that mark and the reader don’t really get on, like they just argue a lot and just generally don’t get on, but then they get stuck in an elevator and reader is terrified of elevators and tries to hide it from mark so not to seem weak but eventually he has to like help her calm down, idk it might be stupid, anyway have a lovely day! 💓💓

summary: It’s simple. You and Mark don’t get along. But of course, the universe— being the cruel mistress she is— has plans to force your paths to cross. This time: in the form of an elevator.

cw: no use of y/n. swearing. angst. descriptions of a panic attack. mark is a jerk. enemies to lovers (?). confined spaces. claustrophobia. forced proximity. the night-shift being idiots. pet names [ detective, sweetheart, good girl ]. mark is a sarcastic asshole but a real teddy bear under all that.

estelle yapping: i was kicking my feet the entire time I wrote this btw

word count: 4.1k

There was just something about Mark Meachum that made people want to deck him in the mouth. Not out of rage, necessarily. No, it was something far quieter than that. A twitch in the jaw. A fist curled under the table to release some tension. An itch in the knuckles that pleaded for a release. Maybe it was the way he looked at people– like he could skin them alive with a simple look. Like he knew all the rot that lived beneath the surface. Maybe it was the way his mouth never sat still, always curled into something smug or all knowing.

Or, maybe it was just because he could be an asshole.

Whatever it was, you were sitting right at the top of the list of people who fantasize about punching him. You’d imagined it more than once– your ring-clad knuckles catching the edge of his jaw. Wiping off the smug smirk right off his face. The sharp cracking sound it would make when your hand collided with his skin. The slow bloom of a bruise rising on his cheek. That dumb, stunned look he’d wear like he couldn’t believe you actually hit him. As if you hadn’t been telepathically doing it for months.

Perhaps it was petty. But it would have been extremely therapeutic. And considering the months of snide remarks and sideways glances he’d tossed your way, you figured it was long overdue.

And in your defense, Mark sauntered into work everyday with something new locked and loaded– some jab wrapped in sarcasm and disdain that would have been cool back on the playground. And honestly? You’d been kind. Saintly, even, if you believed in all that stuff, for not cracking him sooner. Besides, Oliveras would’ve happily posted your bail. Hell, she’d probably charm the DA into dropping the charges entirely. You were sure even the DA would have been proud of you.

God, Oliveras is the best.

The bullpen is quiet tonight. Everyone else had cleared out– off to cuddle their kids, walk their dogs, or fall asleep watching Grey's Anatomy with someone’s legs tangled over theirs. You had stayed behind. The glow of your monitor is the only thing lighting up your corner of the station. You had stayed behind to finish the reports from cases you’ve solved and leaf through cold-case reports.

But now, staring over the clock across the room, your stomach sinks. What felt like an extra hour somehow turned to three. It’s past eleven. About a quarter to midnight. Suddenly, the quiet isn’t very peaceful– it feels heavy. Like the silence was pressing an invisible weight onto your back and creeping up the base of your neck.

It was definitely time to go home.

You let out a yawn that cracked your jaw and leaned forward, forcing your tired limbs to drag your bag up into your lap. It was heavier than you remembered– stuffed with a few case files you swore you’d looked at, a case of gum, your wallet, keys, a tube of lipgross that was running on empty. The only things left on your desk were a few pencils and folders. All were easy enough to gather. You scooped them up into your arms, moving quicker as you felt the weight in your chest growing claws. Anxiety crept its way up your spine. Silent and irrational, but just strong enough to make your hands tremble.

Maybe you were overeating. Maybe you’d been watching too many horror movies. But you could name a handful of movies that started exactly like this– woman alone in a dark building, lights flickering, silence thick enough to drown in.

So.. yeah. You picked up your pace.

The walk through the halls was brisk, your bag slung over your shoulder like dead weight. The station hadn’t felt like the one you’d known anymore– it felt hollowed out, like the guts and life had been drained from the walls. Each step echoed louder than was pleasant. The silence didn’t feel like the usual kind, the end-of-shift stillness. It felt like the kind that could sink its teeth into you.

A sharp exhale left your lips when you saw the elevator come into view. Thank fuck.

You really hated being alone in the station. Always had– even back when you were a rookie cop, drowning in the noise of patrol and your T.O barking orders at you. There was something about the fluorescent lighting and cold floors that felt eerie when everyone else had left. But being in the elevator alone was a worse feeling. It was a strange fear– illogical– but deeply rooted in your mind. All it would take was one snapped cable. One little malfunction and boom. You’d be plummeting into a concrete grave in your very own metal coffin.

Then, with a soft whir and mechanical sigh, the elevator doors peeled open.

And your entire night was ruined.

Because standing there like a demon from your own personal circle of hell was none other than Mark fucking Meachum.

He didn’t even look up at first. His head was tipped forward, one hand braced on the wall while the other was gripping his phone, jaw clenched like he had smelled something rancid. Something on that screen had clearly pissed him off– the corners of his mouth were carved into a scowl, and his brows were pulled together in something that resembled disgust. Maybe he’d just seen the news highlighting the ‘riots’ occurring in LA. Or maybe that was just his face.

You froze. Hovering at the threshold. The stairs sounded like paradise all of a sudden. Maybe you could reach that ten thousand step goal before midnight after all.

But he looked up. Of course he did.

And his eyes instantly met yours like the universe had it out to get you personally. He groaned– audibly– like you’d just handed him a plate of steamed peas in a bakery filled with treats.

“Are you coming in or not, Detective?” He grunted, voice rough like jagged gravel. “I’d like to get the fuck out of here. So make your decision. Now.”

Your mind, ever creative, supplies you with a dazzling vision of the elevator cables snapping with him inside it. Just him. Shrieking all the way down. Praying to god and apologizing for being such a jerk to you. It’s a nice image– comforting, even. But ultimately, you trudge into the elevator, willing away the grimace that wanted to sour your expression.

You take your place on the far side of the metal death trap– as far from Mark as the cramped space would allow. The air flowing between the two of you is charged with tension and unsaid insults. He doesn’t spare you a glance. Just looks off into the distance like he’d rather be anywhere but inside the same elevator with you for two minutes. You don’t give him the satisfaction of even rolling your eyes.

Silence accelerates the annoyance bubbling under your skin. It was heavy. Tense. The kind that makes your skin itch if you don’t let it release. You cross your arms, silently fuming. He checks his phone once again, thumb scrolling on his screen with unnecessary aggravation.

The elevator doors close and begin its slow descent.

The silence lasts maybe five seconds.

“Nice night to be a dick.” You mutter the words under your breath, eyes fixed on the doors.

Mark snorts. “Nice night to work late and still pretend you got somethin’ important to be doing.”

You turn your head towards him. Slowly. Feel the creeping itch in your knuckles, begging to make contact with his arrogant face. “Excuse me?”

He knows he’s got you riled up. He finally looks up from his phone, eyes sparking with that signature infuriating smugness. “You heard me. Got a real flare for the dramatics. Trudging in here like a kid having a tantrum? Fuckin’ oscar worthy.”

“You’re one to talk!” You snap, voice tight like you were holding yourself back from pouncing on him. And you were. You wanted to whack him. Wipe that smug grin from his mouth. “You act like any minor inconvenience in this station is a personal attack.”

“That’s because most of them are.” His voice is dry, leaning back against the wall with a shrug. Acting as if he didn’t single-handedly cause the chief enough grey hair that would easily put Dumbledore to shame. “If people did their jobs properly, I wouldn’t be such an asshole.”

“You choose to be an asshole.”

He grins, sharp and lazy. The sides of his crooked mouth turn up. “Maybe. But it keeps things interesting, doesn’t it?”

You’re halfway through a scathing reply– something about how he had the social skills of a serial killer– when the elevator shudders violently beneath your feet.

Then everything goes black.

The lights blink out like they’d been smashed. The humming stops. The floor vanishes from your sight right out from under your feet. You almost lose your balance for a moment.

Silence. Your mouth had closed, the jab forgotten on your lips.

“Oh, fuck no.” You breathe out.

The lights don’t turn back on. No flickering or humming. Just the suffocating silence of dead machinery and pitch black air.

You go rigid. Every muscle in your body was pulled taut as if a bucket of glacial temperature had been dumped over your head.

Mark shifts beside you, the rustle of his jacket loud in the sudden darkness. “Well, that’s just fuckin’ perfect.” He grumbles. You can hear the aggravation in his voice. “Trapped in a metal box with you. It must be my lucky day.”

You bite back the rise of panic in your throat, force it to twist and turn into venom on your tongue. “Trust me, I’m not thrilled. I’d rather be in a dumpster.”

“A little dramatic. Even for you.”

You don’t answer him. You’re too focused on how much thicker the air feels now. It’s harder to breathe– like some invisible force was wrapping its talon around your throat and squeezing. Your fingers curl into fists as your sides, nails digging crescents into your palms. The darkness always made your heart race– and this darkness wasn’t the usual, bedtime kind– but this darkness was unnatural. It’s the kind that makes your hands shake and snap at even the sweetest people.

Thank fuck Mark’s a cunt.

He must sense the anxiety that’s clawing up your veins. Maybe he heard the way your breath had shifted. Or maybe he just wanted something to do.

The flashlight on his phone flickers on, a harsh white beam slicing through the darkness. He turns to the elevator panel, nudging you out the way and muttering something under his breath. Probably something about your attitude.

“Calm down.” He mutters– like you’re some sort of child about to throw a tantrum.

“I am calm!” You snap, voice higher than it should be.

“Uh-huh.” He rolls his eyes, crouching his tall frame down to get eye-level with the panel. He jabs the ‘open door’ button. Nothing. He presses the ‘emergency call’ once. Twice. Six times. Still absolutely nothing.

“Try pressing it harder.” You say through gritted teeth.

He doesn’t even turn to look towards you. “That your version of flirtin’?”

You hiss through your teeth, the anxiety bubbling in your throat making your aggression rise to unnatural heights. “In what universe would I ever flirt with you?”

“The one where you’ve clearly got a thing for sexy, emotionally unavailable assholes.” You can hear the grin in his voice.

You take a step forward. You think about whacking the back of his head– briefly, before the thought flickers out. He doesn’t flinch. “You’re not emotionally unavailable, Mark. You’re just a dick with a badge.”

“Aw,” he says dryly, pressing different buttons on the panel in the hopes of one of them working. “Sweet talk me some more, sweetheart.”

You’re gearing up to really– finally– whack him. Or say something that would be a good hit below the belt just to knock the sly grin off his face. But then he abruptly mutters a curse. “Stupid generator should’ve kicked in by now.”

That shuts you up. You glance around, as if the darkness will somehow shift, as if it will sprout claws and drag you down into an abyss. Maybe the lights are just playing chicken. But they don’t come back on. Not even a flicker.

And now your chest feels too tight. The darkness felt too consuming. And now the walls felt too close together.

Mark slaps the panel. “C’mon, man..”

You don’t say anything. But you know your breathing has picked up too loud.

Mark turns, looking over at you with narrowed eyes. He can see the way your lip had been pulled between your teeth, your fists clenched at your sides, and the way your eyes were staring daggers at the doors. As if the walls were about to start bleeding.

“What..” he drawls, watching you practically turtle into yourself. “You watch The Conjuring too much as a kid or some shit?”

You blink, caught off-guard by his question. What the fuck was he talking about?

It took you a moment to think and decipher it– he was talking about the Stephan King movie. The one with the elevator and creepy twins and the kid on a tricycle.

“That was The Shining, dumbass.”

“Whatever.” Mark grumbled, jamming his thumb into the emergency call button like it owes him money.

A shaky breath leaves your lips, arms folding tightly over your chest. Not because you’re cold. Because you’re starting to spiral and the tips and tricks your school therapist had taught you back in middle school to snub a panic attack were coming to the forefront of your mind. And because you can’t let him see that. Not him. Not Mark Meachum of all people.

Mark lets out an aggravated grunt, the light emanating from his phone jostling around. He’s checking his signal. “Christ,” he grunts. “No bars. Not even a fuckin’ sliver.”

You pull your phone out. Same thing. No signal, no service, not even a viable WiFi to latch onto. Just the mocking SOS glinting in the corner of your screen.

“Try texting Finau,” he says, already swiping his message threads open. “Sometimes it’ll ping if you send it low bandwidth–”

“I know how a phone works.” You bite out, thumb shakily typing a message that would go absolutely fucking nowhere.

He glances over at you in the dark, eyes narrowed into slits. “Christ, take it easy.”

You don’t respond right away. You couldn’t trust your voice not to tremble– or somehow let yourself let out an involuntary shriek. So instead, you slip behind the walls you’d crafted back in high school– sarcasm, sharp-edged and cold.

“We’ll be here a while.” you mutter, fingers tapping against the backside of your phone. Just something to slowly expel the nervous energy before it exploded. “Maybe I’ll eat you first.”

Mark chuckles– it’s small but reverent. “Cute.”

You shoot a glare at him, but the heat behind it is dimming. Your pulse was starting to skyrocket from the angry category towards the more trapped category. You feel your skin flushing and gooseflesh creeping up your arms at the same time. Like your skin has no idea how to behave anymore.

Mark turns his attention back to the panel, poking and prodding at buttons like he’s trying to will it into submission. “Fuckin’ thing is the spawn of satan.” He grumbles, whacking it angrily. “I swear to God if I ever meet the moron who designed this elevator-”

A thunk sound is heard.

The elevator jolts– not much. A little shift. A mechanical nudge– old equipment sighing and shifting under their weight. Nothing dramatic. Nothing dangerous.

But it’s more than enough.

You break. Your breath catches in your throat like a damn chokehold. You stumble back a step, flimsy hand catching the railing like your life depended on it. You blink, your breathing fast and shallow, trying to get more into your lungs but it’s just not working. The walls are too close. The light from his flashlight is too bright. And you were about to fall to your death and die– next to Mark fucking Meachum. Your chest tightens, fingers tingling and you can’t stop it. Your vision was blurring around the edges and you were able to watch in real time the world turning upside down.

Mark straightens, feeling you stumble backwards. The panel was quickly forgotten. “Hey.” His voice is gruff. Confused. “What the– hey. Are you good?”

A blink. Shallow gasp, loud enough to shatter the confused expression right from his face.

“Shit,” he breathes out. His whole body changes– his tone, stance, all the usual asshole bravado gone. Like he’d slipped into an entirely new person. He steps closer with his hands raised slightly. “Okay. Alright. Hey, look at me.”

You try. You really do. Your eyes dart to his but they don’t see him.

“Breathe.” He says softly, his voice firmer now. “You’re okay. We’re not falling. It’s just the metal shifting. It’s normal.”

You shake your head, fast. You don’t believe him. This was your last night on earth. Last night alive– and you’d spent it hovering over files and trapped in a metal tomb with the one person you’ve ever despised in your entire life.

“I need you to focus.” He says, closer now. His flashlight was pointed upwards in the middle of the floor on the highest setting, illuminating the room. You weren’t sure when he had put his phone down. “Can you do that for me?”

Still no answer.

“Alright. Five things.” His voice was close to a whisper, quiet and firm. “Name five things you love. Doesn’t matter what.”

Your eyes squeeze shut, feeling as though they have pins and needles. “I- I can’t-”

“Yes, you can.” His voice was gentle now, low and steady. Like a solid rock in a raging storm, unmoving and firm. “Say something. One at a time. I’ll go first– coffee. Those donuts Drew brought in. Music. Sleeping. A good argument.”

A strangled sound that might have been a laugh leaves your lips. But you’re still shaking. Your hands are trembling and breathing shallow as if you’d just watched your greatest nightmare walk in front of you.

His hand finds your wrist– grip gentle. Grounding. Or trying to be, at least.

“C’mon, sweetheart.” he murmurs. “I know you’ve got them.”

A strangled mess of syllables leave your lips. He leans in, trying to make sense of the incoherent sounds that had tumbled out of your throat. “What?”

“My bed,” you croak. “Scarry movies. coffee. “

“That’s three. A couple more.”

Your eyes flutter and you feel like your body is wading out into thick, muddy water. “My friend’s evil cat,” you whisper. Then, as an afterthought, “You smell like cedarwood. It’s nice. I hate it.”

He smiles. Just a little– a corner of his mouth turning up. But he grows serious once more, his voice a murmur. “That’s five. Good girl.”

Another jolt– barely anything that a normal person would realize– but you’re so overstimulated that it sends your knees wobbling like jello. Before your body can even think of falling, Mark’s there, arms encasing around you, pulling you against his broad chest. He’s warm.

“I’ve got you.” He says quickly, urgency dripping from his words. Almost like he’s trying to make up for the words and signs he hadn’t gotten earlier. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

You’re still shaking, breathing ragged and jaded. He presses a hand to the back of your head, guiding it to his chest. His other hand rubs slow, grounding circles down your arm. He’s murmuring something under his breath– slow and rhythmic– like he’s done this a thousand times before.

“Breathe with me,” he whispers, mouth close to your ear. “In. Four seconds. C’mon, just follow me.”

You try. But your breathing hiccups, a shake spreading through your frayed nerves like lightning. Mark counts again. He slows and matches your rhythm, starting over each time you mess up. It’s obvious now that he had done this before. More than once.

“Good. Jus’ like that.” His scent surrounds you– warmth and cedar and something masculine. It grounds you far more than you’d like it to.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself. “Should’ve realized the signs.”

You don’t say anything. You focus on calming your breathing down and the way he’s solid and unmoving beneath you. You just let him hold you, head cradled against his chest and listening to his steady heartbeat.

The silence stretches.

Your breathing slows. Not entirely steady, but just enough. You’re still wrapped in him– muscular arms firm around you, one hand moving slowly up and down your arm like he’s trying to remove the fear from your skin. His breath is warm against your temple. He feels.. Real. And it’s grounding. You hate how it feels good.

And then there’s a soft click.

The lights flicker. Once. Twice. Then a full hum of electricity surges through the walls, turning the meta tomb back into a working elevator once more, The fluorescent ceiling panels stutter back to life. Everything felt too bright– too exposed. The walls felt wider now, but not enough to undo what had happened. What just transpired between the two of you.

Mark blinks, the white light washing over his features.

You both pull back slowly. Like it takes a conscious effort to pull away from each other. You don’t meet his eyes. You’re trying to pretend that your hands aren’t shaking– this time not from fear or anxiety. He rubs the back of his neck, mouth twitching like he wants to say something but thinks better of it.

The elevator lurches gently.

You both grab out at the railing on instinct,but it doesn’t stop this time. This time it moves slowly, steadily, like nothing had ever happened. And not a word is spoken between the two of you as the elevator makes its descent. Maybe it’s the emotional whiplash thrumming through your mind, or the exhaustion in your limbs that screamed, but the silence didn’t feel combative anymore. Almost.. Raw. Quiet.

Like a white flag had been waved.

When the doors finally open at the lobby level, you both step out into the sterile glow of overhead lights. Now with a new sense of appreciation for the ground and stairs. But everything looks painfully normal. Mundane.

Down the hall, one of the midnight-shift officers was lazily leaning back in a chair. He was half asleep, leafing through some celebrity news tabloid someone had left in the breakroom. His gaze lifts from the magazine, not even lifting his head. “Hey.” He greets, looking back down as you pass. “Didn’t know anyone was still in the elevator.”

You and Mark stare at him.

“The elevator kinda got stuck.” Mark says gruffly, his voice dry.

“Really?” The officer blinks, shrugging his shoulders. Like the whole ordeal the two of you had gone through meant nothing “Didn’t hear anything.”

Mark glances sideways at you, this time not in an insulting or instigating way. You look back over at him. A laugh that’s half disbelief and half leftover adrenaline rises to your lips but you swallow it. Force it back down.

You both walk past him without a response.

Outside, the air is chilly on your skin. The light breeze gently nips against your skin. You breathe in the LA air deeply, never feeling so grateful for a scent that wasn’t metallic or stale air. Your car is only a couple feet away but you find yourself pausing. Mark follows suit.

The two of you speak at the same time.

“Think the night shift’s–”

“- completely fuckin’ useless?”

You both stop. Exchange a look that equaled a thousand words. And for once, there’s no venom in your stare.

A smile almost captures your lips. “Not a single brain cell in the whole department after 11PM.”

Mark exhales a laugh. “Place could be burning down and they’d still be arguing about who stole a donut.”

That makes you smile. A small one that Mark notices– feeling his chest tighten with something foreign.

The two of you linger for just another moment. The usual rhythm the two of you lived in was now thrown far off course. Then, you nod towards your car. “See you tomorrow, Meachum.”

“Right.” He says, watching you for a little longer than he should have. “Get some rest.”

You felt it– the shift. It was small but evident. Almost reverent.

Something had changed.

estelle yaps some more: hey, love!! you can find my other jackles’ works here. right now, my requests are open! if you’d like, join the taglist!

taglist: @lori19 @poisonivy2267 @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 @kimxwinchester @beabopaluula <3

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shinoko-oshi · 2 months ago

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Just Because’s - Simon Riley

It started small.

You brought him new socks.

That’s it — socks. Nothing fancy, just a twenty pack of black ones from the store because you noticed his were wearing thin.

That night, he went down on you without a word. No buildup, nor teasing, just dropped to his knees while you were brushing your teeth, pulling your shorts down like it was his next mission.

You didn’t even have time to ask.

When you tried to stop him, said something like, “Babe, you don’t have to—” he just looked up at you with that dead serious stare he got at times and said, “You got me something.”

Like that explained it.

The next time, it was a bottle of his cologne. He was running low. You ordered it before he even mentioned it, leaving it on the bathroom sink.

He kissed you that night, slow and sweet, like it was the last thing he’d ever do. And then he fucked you like it was the only way he knew how to say thank you.

But that wasn’t the part that made your chest ache.

It was later, when you sat on the couch beside him, wrapping up in a warm blanket, your head resting on his shoulder and he stiffened slightly, then turned to ask, with a almost cautious tone:

“What do you need?”

And you blinked, confused “From what?”

“Well your coming to me, what do you want me to do?”

You laughed softly at first, thought maybe he was joking.

But he wasn’t.

His shoulders were tense. Jaw locked. He looked ready to stand, like if you told him to go scrub the entire kitchen with a toothbrush, he’d already be halfway to the sink.

That’s when it hit you.

This wasn’t just gratitude. It wasn’t about being a good partner.

To him, love had a price tag.

Every nice thing came with invisible strings he thought he owed you for. If you cooked, he cleaned like it was owed. If you rubbed his shoulders, he wouldn’t rest until you were trembling from something he did to your body. You left a note in his lunchbox once, just a simple “hope you have a good day”, and when he came home, he barely let you make it to the bed before he had you gasping his name in the dark.

Not out of desire. Not always.

Sometimes it was out of obligation.

You saw it in the way he watched you afterward, waiting and tense, like he was checking to see if you were satisfied enough to let him breathe again.

One night, it broke your heart wide open.

You had made him tea. That was it. He looked tired so you put on the kettle.

And when you handed it to him, he didn’t smile. Just took it and stared into the mug like it had insulted him.

“I didn’t ask for this” he muttered

“I know,” you said gently. “You don’t have to ask.”

“I didn’t do anything to earn it.”

The words shattered your heart.

You sat beside him, slowly, and reached for his hand. He let you take it. He always did. But he didn’t relax or soften.

So you said it as plainly as you could:

“You don’t have to earn it, Simon, that’s not how this works. I’m not keeping a score. I’m not waiting for you to pay me back.”

His eyes flicked to yours.

“I love you,” you said, “and sometimes love looks like tea or clean socks or maybe a new cologne and that doesn’t mean you owe me your body, or your time, or anything.”

He was quiet for a moment, looking down at his hands.

“No one’s ever done that for me before.”

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his.

“Well, they should’ve”

And maybe he didn’t say anything else that night. Maybe he didn’t know how.

But he let you hold him.

And for once, he didn’t try to earn it.

Sorry for not posting, im finally back and out of the slump I was in lol

anywayyy what we thinkkk?

This idea was in my head for over three weeks now and I think I like it better now that I’ve written it, bit of angst and comfort, that I think fit Simon yk?

Master list

look at my cat

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heartz-for-de · 2 days ago

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No Choice .

katsuki bakugo x fem! Reader .

Summary: After a string of threats, you were forced into fear as you were pressured into leaving UA. That seemed to be your only option in order to keep your classmates safe, to leave behind your dreams of being a hero. You were doing just that, running away. that was until your boyfriend, Katsuki bakugo, walks in on you packing for the “trip.”

Warnings: cussing, MENTIONS OF GUN, crying, threats, stalking.

A/n: thank you so much to the lovely @ilbtvs for requesting this :)))

—

You had to leave, you had no choice. You couldn’t risk the safety of those you loved—the ones you held closest to your heart. Not after they worked so hard to get where they were now.

Your fists were clenched as you felt the paper crinkling and tearing under your tight grasp. They had started weeks ago—the letters. First simple ones, empty minded threats that you thought were stupid pranks done by some bored asshole. But they soon got personal—so much so to the point that you knew it was no longer a joke. Pictures were sent along with messily written messages usually consisting of ‘saw you here’ or sometimes even ‘how much do you love your friends?’.

You never understood what they meant or why you were receiving them, but you knew that you had to keep it under-wraps in case they were genuinely thinking of hurting you or those close to you. Acting out and telling everyone could cause your little stalker to retaliate, most likely in violence.

Your plan was to stay quiet and wait for some kind of slip up, something to give you the upper hand—Maybe you spotting someone taking a picture of you in public or something of the sort, but that plan was torn to shreds the second you got your most recent letter.

It was pictures of all of your classmates, some of them up closer than you were comfortable with. In the back of the envelope was what really solidified your choice, it was a picture of a gun. You’d seen the kind before, the silencer on it making it look more intimidating than it should’ve been. Your hands shook whenever you read the note.

‘How much do you love your friends? Leave UA tonight, and you might just get to see them become pros.’

The words were written in red this time, whether it was simply for the scare factor or not you didn’t really care. The words tasted different in your mouth this time, the realization of what it said dawning on you. How much do you love your friends. It was a frequent saying that had been popping up on the letters, something that always felt like a threat but was mostly up to interpretation. This time it was clear as day what the person meant.

Growing up you wanted nothing more than to be a hero, like most kids, but this situation made you rethink everything you had worked for. As badly as you wanted to become a pro, no one in your class deserved to die because of it. It was you or all of them. It was you or him. Katsuki. Your boyfriend. God, how could you explain this to him. You knew you wouldn’t have been able to so you were going to do the most sensible thing, leave without anyone knowing—before anyone could change your mind.

You had crumpled and thrown the distressed paper long ago, the frustration of the situation overwhelming you. You grabbed your phone, checking the time.

‘Shit.’ You needed to start packing essentials now if you wanted to leave by dark. The day was already beginning to end, the sunset was a clear tell tale of that.

While checking the time, you saw the texts Katsuki had sent you not to long ago.

(

Kats💥❤️: wya thought u wanted to train td?

(

You winced at the memory of the plans. You had promised him a good sparring session, but that was before you had received that stupid fucking note. You scrolled down slightly, seeing his handful of other messages.

(

Kats💥❤️: tf? Did u fall asleep or some shit? I’m gonna go ahead and spar w shitty hair until you wanna get your ass over here.

Kats💥❤️: js finished training. Did I do some shit to piss you off or is this one of your dumbass pranks? If not ur ass better be asleep.

(

You hadn’t even realized you were tearing up until you saw the wet splotch land on your phone screen.

You wiped your eyes as quickly as they had started to water, you didn’t have time to cry right now. Maybe later, after you left, but not right now. Not until you knew they were safe—he was safe.

Across the building bakugo walked through the 1-a dormitory entrance with a grunt. His skin was adorned with the shiny glean of sweat from his training session. The very session you, his girlfriend, planned and then bailed on.

He was pissed, I mean who wouldn’t be, but his anger was overwhelmed by a strong sense of worry. He wanted to brush it all off, to call you for the umpteenth time and tell you to stop taking naps without texting him first, but he couldn’t shake the strange feeling. As he traversed the common room he caught sight of Mina—if anyone knew what you were up to it would be her.

“Oi, racoon eyes, where’s y/n?” He called out from behind the couches, watching as the pink haired girl turned her head around towards him.

“Huh? Oh, I was Gonna ask you. I haven’t seen her since class earlier today.” She answered with a curious look on her face.

Even though the response was completely normal, Katsuki felt his stomach churn slightly. He didn’t spare her any more conversation, deciding that he needed to calm his nerves as soon as possible before they got out of hand.

He assumed that youd ran off to your dorm, hoped that you’d ran off to your dorm, and not told anybody. His strides were long and a little too quick of tempo to be considered just walking, but he pressed forward. The elevator ride seemed to be slower than ever, even though your floor wasn’t even the highest one. The second it reached its destination, bakugo wasted no time, immediately continuing his previous pace towards your dorm.

His eyes burned into your door as he knocked a little too aggressively. No response. The previous feeling in his stomach returned, his thoughts now really going into overdrive. He knocked once more, just to be sure.

“Y/n, open the damn door.” He scoffed. He wanted to sound reassuring and sweet, just in case something was wrong, but his current state of worry made it nearly impossible. The only thing on his mind was seeing your face and making sure you were unharmed.

Still no answer. He screwed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to think of what to do. Just as he released another heavy sigh, he heard movement from behind the door. And not just like scuffling—no like a thud. His eyes widened at the conformation of your presence.

“Screw it..” he muttered quietly as he turned your door handle with a scowl.

Your head snapped from where you stood, your eyes wide and frantic. Before he could even get a word out, he took in your surroundings, took in you. It didn’t take long for his expression to mirror your own.

There you stood, a dark hoodie and jeans on, with an open bag sitting in front of you on your bed. Inside the bag he could make out clothes, basic essential, and a singular framed photograph. The same one that sat on your bedside table each night, the one of you and him on your first date.

His red eyes flickered quickly between you and the bag. What the fuck.

“Katsuki, please do-“

“Where the hell are you going?” He growled through his already clenched teeth. You watched as his jaw ticked. You stared back at him, unsure of how to answer.

“No where.” Probably the worst fucking answer you could’ve gave, but your head was spinning so viciously that you couldn’t think of anything better.

“What the fuck—why haven’t you answered any of my texts, and why the hell are you packing for a…month long trip.” He reassessed your bag, truly taking in how many things you’d smooshed into it.

“I’m sorry, I…I had to pack.” You couldn’t hide the truth anymore. It was evident you were trying to leave. “I have to leave.”

His confused expression dropped in the blink of an eye, instead replaced with something darker. His eyes wide and unwavering.

“What do you mean you ‘have to leave’.” His words were clear, his voice softer and deeper than his previous shouts. You could tell he was partially understanding the severity of the situation.

You hadn’t meant to, but your eyes flickered to the pictures and letter on your desk. For the first time since he entered, his eyes broke off you, now on the letter. You didn’t even have time to register that he’d seen them before he was across the room and rummaging through the photos.

“What the fuck…” he mumbled with anger dripping off every word. He looked up from them with squinted eyes.

“Why..” his words came off his tongue unfinished.

“I don’t know—I don’t know who it is or who it’s from, but I’m sorry kats. I don’t want anybody hurt.” You felt the tears slipping past your cheeks, your voice cracking slightly.

“No.. I mean why the hell did you not tell me this shit was being sent to you. I mean—why..why would you just try to leave instead of asking for help?” He dropped the photos on the ground, his body involuntarily moving towards you. He was angry, so fucking angry. Why didn’t you tell him? Why wouldn’t you let him protect you? Why were you trying to leave him? He felt his hands slightly shaking as he saw your teary eyes.

“I-i didn’t want to risk putting everyone—putting you in more danger than you were already in. I thought..I thought this was the only way to keep you all safe..” his expression grew more sour the longer you continued talking.

“Leaving me isn’t doing shit to keep me ‘safe’. I can handle some lousy ass with a gun. What I can’t fucking handle is you trying to leave.” His words were growing louder even as he got closer, his eyes now glossed over.

“Kats, im sorry. I don’t know what else to do.” You were now sobbing, the fear of everything setting into your skin like a searing hot brand.

He saw it in your eyes, the fear, the uncertainty. And along with it he felt his heart break slightly. How could he let you feel like this; how did he not notice your growing paranoia over the passing weeks? He sucked his teeth at the burning that entered his throat without welcome.

He closed the distance between the two of you, his strong arms wrapping around you as your shoulders stiffened.

“You don’t need to solve this shit alone, we are gonna figure this out together.” He squeezed you tighter for a second. “I won’t let anything happen to you.” His voice was soft, something you hadn’t really grown used to even after the months you had been dating.

“I’m so sorry for this whole thing Katsuki, I love you s’much.” Your words were barely coherent, the sobs still wracking through your chest from the release of all the pressure.

“I love ya too. Don’t ever hide nothin’ like this from me again, you hear me? We do this shit as a team. Always.” Even though he was deeply concerned, he couldn’t help but scold you. You simply nodded back, your head smushed against his chest.

You stayed like that for awhile, the warm comforting embrace of your boyfriend causing you to forget about the heart of the argument you two had. The letters. You stiffened again in his hold, eyes peering up at him through wet eyelashes. He gave you a knowing look.

“We are gonna go show Aizawa everything. Bring it to whatever damn heros we have to, and Once they find out who it is, I’ll show this damn extra what happens to dumbasses like him who wanna mess with my girl.” His unusually affectionate terms caused you to flush, he wasn’t the best with words but he somehow knew exactly what to say to calm your stirring nerves.

You were still scared shitless, with the villian out and probably aware of the mishap that had just happened. But at least now you’d be scared as Katsuki held you and promised to keep you safe no matter what. Atleast you had him.

—

:)Hope this was half decent! Also sorry for any grammar mistakes or anything like that, I type super fast and sometimes I forget words lolololol

134 notes · View notes

starl1ght444 · 3 months ago

Text

jason todd x fem!reader

── .✦ angst

[jason’s hurtful words lead you to leave for a couple days]

long story — [7k word count]

second person writing / edited-ish

*.ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

you don’t even remember what started it.

maybe it was the late nights. the blood on his knuckles. the way he shut you out like a slammed door every time something bothered him. maybe it was the way you kept asking, over and over, “are you okay?” and getting that practiced silence in return. or maybe it was you. wanting too much. needing answers he wasn’t ready to give.

It starts with the quiet. the kind that creeps in before the thunder hits. jason walks in, his jacket soaked with rain and something darker. his eyes avoid yours. you’re used to it, but tonight something in you snaps. “did you kill anyone yet?” you ask. not because you want to accuse him. but because you have to know.

he stiffens. “what the hell kind of question is that?”

you don’t back down. “a serious one. because I can’t keep pretending I don’t know what you’re doing out there.”

jason tosses his helmet on the counter with a loud clatter. “don’t start this.”

“no, you don’t get to tell me when I start. you come home covered in blood, you don’t talk to me, you shut me out—”

“because it’s none of your business!” he snaps.

that stings. you feel it in your chest, sharp and immediate.

“I am your business, jason. or am I just something you keep around to feel normal?”

he laughs—bitter, cold. “don’t flatter yourself.” —silence.

you blink. his words hit you like a slap, and he knows it. he flinches for a second. just one. but he doesn’t take it back. you try to keep your voice steady. “so that’s what I am? just… convenient?”

he doesn’t answer. you’re waiting for him to say no. to soften. to say he didn’t mean it. instead, he mutters, “you knew what this was. don’t act like you didn’t sign up for it.”

that’s the thing. you did know. you knew loving jason todd would mean long nights, fear gnawing at your ribs, and blood on his knuckles when he kissed you goodnight. but what you didn’t sign up for was being invisible.

“I didn’t sign up to be treated like an afterthought,” you say, standing now, voice rising. “I didn’t sign up for being ignored, for being lied to. you don’t talk to me, jason. you just disappear.”

jason scoffs. “and what, I should be reporting in every five minutes? you want a boyfriend or a lapdog?”

your heart aches, but you don’t back down. “i want you. the version of you that lets me in. the one that doesn’t shut down and push me away every time something gets hard.”

“I don’t need you to fix me!” he shouts, voice suddenly cutting through the air like a whip. “I don’t need your sympathy or your constant hovering. you think loving me gives you the right to pry into every dark corner of my life?”

you stare at him, stunned. “It’s not prying when I’m trying to help jay..”

“I didn’t ask for your help!” he barks. “god, you’re so damn exhausting. always needing something. always complaining. maybe I’d be better off without you dragging me down all the time.”

you stare at him like you’re seeing someone else entirely. “you’re a coward.” — wrong thing to say.

jason steps forward, eyes burning. “you think I’m the coward? you sit here in your nice little apartment, judging me like you’re above it all. you don’t know what it’s like out there. you couldn’t last a week in my world.”

“and yet I’ve been trying for months!” you shout, your voice breaking. “but you don’t care. you never really let me in. you just wanted someone to come home to—someone who didn’t ask too many questions.”

“you think you’re some kind of savior?” he sneers. “you’re not. you’re just another person who thought they could fix me.”

you stop. you feel it crack right there—something fragile and important inside you. “i didn’t want to fix you,” you whisper. “ i just wanted you to let me in.”

he scoffs. “then you wanted too much.” and that’s it. a finial look into jason’s eyes of any hint of regret— nothing. just pure frustration and anger. a weight in your heart dragging you towards the door. no dramatic exit. no final scream. just you walking past him, grabbing your bag, and shutting the door behind you.

at first, jason doesn’t move he doesn’t feel much of anything, honestly. just numb. tired. angry in that hollow way that doesn’t have a target anymore. he just stands there, staring at the door like it’s going to swing open again. It always does.

you always come back. — he grabs a beer from the fridge. sits on the couch. flips on the TV. something violent and loud, because silence feels like guilt.

hours pass. no call. no message.

he scrolls through his phone. no unread texts. he opens your thread—nothing. his fingers hover over the keyboard, then stop. he locks the phone and throws it on the table.

then he starts thinking about what he said. really thinking.

“you’re just another person who thought they could fix me.”

the way your face changed. he remembers the silence right before you walked out, how final it felt. and something cold settles in his chest. it’s been almost 4 hours since you left.

he starts pacing. that tight feeling in his chest creeps in like smoke under a door. his palms feel clammy. he’s sweating. his vision is narrowing. he can’t think. — you didn’t come back.

you always come back. “shit,” he whispers, running a hand through his hair. “shit, shit—”

the room feels like it’s closing in. the walls are too close, the ceiling too low, like everything’s pressing down on him at once. he can’t breathe. his knees buckle, and he slides down against the wall, gasping for air, chest heaving like he’s drowning. his hands shake. his throat burning.

he didn’t mean it. — of course he didn’t mean it. you’re not convenient..you’re the only thing that’s kept him afloat. you’re the light he pretends he doesn’t need but clings to in the dark.

and now you’re gone. the words he threw at you, the venom he spit out just to win a fight, ring louder than the silence you left behind. he says your name into the empty apartment. once. then again. then louder. like if he says it enough, you’ll hear him. — but you don’t. and now the silence is unbearable.

he can’t breathe. now It’s been five hours since you left, and jason’s chest is on fire. not the kind that comes from bruised ribs or a bullet wound—he knows that pain. he’s good with that pain. this is worse. this is panic. helplessness.—this was worse kind of hurt because it doesn’t bleed.

his phone is clutched so tight in his hand, his knuckles have gone white. he stares at the screen, thumb hovering over your name in his contacts again. he’s already called five times.

no answer. — just the sound of your dumb voicemail message, cheerful and playful and now completely soul-crushing. “haii! Its (y/n), im sorry i missed your call! im not home right now! but i can take a message… let me grab a pencil…hm okay! what would you like me to tell me?” it used to make him smile. now it makes him sick. he hits redial.

one ring.

two.

three.

voicemail. — again. again. again.

he runs both hands through his hair, dragging his fingers hard through the strands like maybe pain will wake him up. like maybe this isn’t real. like maybe you’re still coming home, keys jingling, saying his name like you do when you’re trying not to smile. but the apartment is dead quiet. and it smells like rain and blood and something fading.

“pick up,” he mumbles to no one. “please (y/n).. please just pick up.” he calls again. and again.

his hands are shaking now, so bad he nearly drops the phone. his mind is running circles around itself—what if something happened? what if she didn’t look crossing the street? what if someone followed her? what if she’s hurt?—and he can’t shut it off. his heart is pounding too loud in his ears, drowning out reason. he stands up fast, then stumbles forward, grabbing the edge of the counter to steady himself. everything’s spinning.

he opens your location on his phone. nothing.

either you turned it off or the battery’s dead. or worse. his brain fills in the blanks faster than he can stop it. “goddammit,” he breathes, slamming his hand down on the counter. the sound echoes in the empty room.

this wasn’t supposed to happen. you were supposed to yell, slam a door, crash on the couch, and by morning everything would be fine. that’s how it’s always gone. you fight, you cool off, you come back. you always come back.

but not tonight. tonight, you left like you meant it.

and jason realizes—too late—that he pushed you harder than he ever had. too far. past the point of no return. past the point where an “I’m sorry” could fix it. he scrolls to your name again.

calls. again. “haii it’s (y/n)! im sorry i mi—” he shuts his eyes and grips the phone like he could tear it in half. your voice is soft, light, untouched by the mess he made. It makes him want to scream. It makes him want to curl in on himself and disappear.

you’re gone. and you’re ignoring him. that’s what finally breaks something inside him.

because jason todd—red hood, vigilante, killer, survivor—can handle almost anything. bullets. torture. death. — but he could not handle being ignored by the one person who made him feel human.

he sinks down against the wall again, chest heaving, lungs burning. his phone slips out of his hand, landing face-up on the floor, screen still lit up with your contact. a tiny, cruel reminder: your not picking up. you don’t want to talk to him.

his mouth is dry. he tries to swallow, tries to breathe, but every inhale feels like it’s too shallow. like he’s not getting enough air. his arms wrap around his knees. he’s shaking. his thoughts are racing.

‘she’s not coming back. you blew it. you pushed too hard. you said too much. she hates you. she should hate you. why would she come back after that?’ he doesn’t know how long he sits there like that—maybe twenty minutes, maybe an hour. All he knows is the silence. and your stupid voicemail. and the gnawing, tearing fear that he might’ve lost the only good thing left in his life.

“I didn’t mean it,” he says aloud, as if the room cares. as if his regrets can travel through walls and streetlights and find their way to wherever you are. “I didn’t mean any of it.” but the universe doesn’t answer.

he pulls himself off the ground. head still spinning, he can’t keep sitting around for you. he needs to find you. the air outside hits him sharp and cold, but it doesn’t clear his head. the city is still dark, the streets damp with leftover rain. his helmet is in his bag. he doesn’t wear it. doesn’t need it. he’s not red hood right now— he’s just jason. — and jason’s falling apart.

he makes his way through the city on his motorcycle, his mind endlessly searching for you. stopping when he even sees a glimpse of someone with your same hairstyle. everything reminding him of you. he feels hopeless knowing how huge gotham is, even more so how dangerous it is.

he ultimately decides to stop at some of your favorite places, maybe to soothe him with precious memories. he knows it’s to early in the morning for most of these places to be open, but he needs to check. needs to try anyways.

his first stop was a café. your favorite locally owned coffee shop, where you two became regulars. it was a small business, on a strip walk between a laundromat and boutique. — the coffee’s always too strong and the chairs wobble if you don’t sit just right. you loved that place.

he memorized your order. it was always the same thing everytime you came here— your order barely changed. — the smell of coffee, occasionally tea on ur breath, he was craving to kiss your lips just to taste your order again.

jason stands across the street for a second. the lights are off. homemade “closed” sign hangs crooked in the window.

he still walks up. presses his hand to the door like it might open. It doesn’t. he presses his palms to the glass, looking in

your spot is empty. the corner table by the window where you used to sit and steal sips of his coffee when you swore you didn’t want one. where your eyes would crinkle when you laughed, lips covered in foam you never noticed until he wiped it away. he stands there, remembering the time you convinced him to try that stupid seasonal drink with cinnamon and syrup and something else sweet that he pretended to hate—but secretly liked, because you liked it.

he thought if he came here, maybe you’d be sitting there again. your beautiful eyes locked in a book he’d recommend while eating a pastry. but there’s nothing. only cold glass and silence and now an emotional memory.

he sits on the bench outside and closes his eyes, trying to summon your laugh. where you are the happiest, and he remembers your smile when he took you to his favorite library.

it became a sacred place for you to. both calm and quiet while enjoying each-others company. so that was his next stop.

the library.

not a big, fancy one. no marble columns or quiet rules. this one’s cramped, unknown, smelling of dust and secondhand pages. you loved it for its charm—for the creaky floors and mismatched chairs and the old man behind the desk who always smiled when he saw you.

jason picks the lock with trembling fingers. slides through the back door like a ghost. third floor. far left corner. your nook.

he stares at the armchair you always claimed, the stack of dog-eared romance novels that you teased him with—the window seat you used when the weather was just right and the sun poured in like liquid gold. he walks through the aisle, trailing his fingers along the spines of books you once handed him. he can almost hear your voice echo in the stillness.

walking around until he was in the aisle where he first met you. making his eyes burn, to many memories flooding in his head— where he tried so desperately to be cool in front of you, and staring at you from afar admiring how divine your presence felt. — jason reading all the books he thought you’d like before even knowing you and putting his name in the checkout card. and watching your face light up from seeing his name once again. giving him the courage to go and talk to you.

a tear burning his cheek, he puts his head down feeling ashamed of pushing you away when memories like these made him feel alive again.

jason left the library, riding off having the city district him. he rides for a while thinking of any more possibilities. he was about to run out of gas and just decides he needs to take a walk anyways— and when he gets off his bike, he notices he’s at a familiar park — It’s further out, away from the main drag, quiet enough that the chaos of gotham doesn’t touch it. you both used to go there when things got loud—inside his head, inside the world.

It’s mostly empty, just a jogger in the distance and birds rustling in the trees. jason walks the winding path slowly, like a man retracing his own history — here—this is where you tripped over your own feet and he caught you, both of you laughing like kids. over there is the tree you climbed and got stuck in, yelling at him between laughs while he pretended he wouldn’t help you down. there’s a bench under the big oak tree. you kissed him there for the first time. real, honest, vulnerable. no masks, no walls. just lips and nerves and something too tender to say out loud.

he passes through more bench where you sat one night, eyes puffy, telling him things you hadn’t told anyone else. and he’d wrapped his jacket around you and promised—promised—he’d never be the one to hurt you.

he sits down there now, gripping the edge of the bench so hard his knuckles go white. — “i lied,” he whispers to no one, his voice strained. becoming angry with himself.

but there was still no sign of you.. and so he knew despite it all he had a couple more places to check. his mind became desperate. he heads where he should’nt, hoping you’re not there. he still had to check— ‘the narrows’ — ‘ park row ‘ — ‘crime ally ‘

he checks alleyways where addicts linger and criminals circle like vultures. every step, he begs he won’t find you there. But he has to check. has to know. he’s on a rampage now, eyes wild, heart racing. he gets in a guy’s face just for looking at him too long. knocks someone out cold when they make a comment about “that girl he used to walk with.”

he checks rooftops. alleys. places you shouldn’t be, but maybe are. places where bad things happen. — places he belongs, not you. he asks around. no one’s seen you. and those who know who he is don’t dare lie. — still nothing. jason’s a mess—bloodshot eyes, raw knuckles, unshaven. he looks like he hasn’t slept in years instead of just a night.

and then — “jason?”

jason turns around. it’s dick.

“jason?” dick calls, landing on the fire escape in full nightwing gear. “what the hell are you doing back in this part of town?”

jason doesn’t answer at first.

dick jumps down in front of him, blocking his path. “jay—hey. talk to me.” — “I messed up,” jason says hoarsely.

dick blinks. “with…?”

jason swallows hard. “(y/n)... she left. and she’s not answering. It’s been hours. I’ve checked everywhere. the café, the library, that damn park. nothing. I don’t even know if she’s okay. I just—I said too much. I said shit I didn’t mean and now she’s just… gone.— dick, i can’t breathe.”

dick moves quickly, placing a hand on jason’s shoulder. “hey. breathe. look at me.” jason meets his eyes, jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

dick doesn’t say anything for a moment. then: “alright. sit down.” dick says guiding him to sit on a nearby stoop.

jason does. because for once, he has nothing left to fight with.

“you love her?” dick asks, voice low. jason nods without thinking, like it’s a reflex. “then tell her. find her and tell her. but not like this. you’re spiraling.”

“I can’t stop,” jason whispers. “every second she’s not answering, I keep thinking she’s hurt. that it’s my fault. that I broke her. I can’t even hear her voice without thinking of what I did.”

dick sighs and puts a hand on his shoulder. “you didn’t break her. you pushed her away. that’s different. and maybe you don’t get to fix it. but you sure as hell don’t stop trying. not until she tells you to.” jason looks at him. “and if she never does?” — “then you mourn. but not until you know for sure.”

jason’s quiet for a long time. watching gotham pass by with his brother “never give up jay, i believe in you” and jason stands up, continuing his search.

but he doesn’t find you.

he checks safehouses. rooftops. he climbs halfway up wayne tower before turning around because he knows you wouldn’t go there.— by the time the sun rises, his hands are shaking.

his head is pounding. his legs feel like lead. and you’re still gone.

he stumbles home like a ghost. kicks off his boots. sinks to the floor. doesn’t even make it to the couch. just sits there.

and stares at the door. It never opens.

three days pass.

no texts. no calls. not even a read receipt.

jason doesn’t eat. doesn’t sleep. barely moves. the apartment is dead quiet except for the occasional replay of your voicemail, like he’s torturing himself on purpose. by the fourth morning, he can’t take it anymore.

he grabs his bag and heads to wayne manor.

bruce meets him at the batcomputer. he doesn’t ask why jason’s there. just takes one look at him—pale, tired, shaking, blood shot eyes — and knows. “use whatever you need,” bruce says softly, walking away.

jason nods, throat tight. while the system loads, alfred appears at his side with a quiet sigh and a fresh mug of coffee and a blanket. he doesn’t speak right away.

then, gently, “would you like to talk about it, master jason?”

jason’s jaw clenches. he shakes his head, but then his voice breaks. “I ruined it.” a lump in his throat, looking at alfred.

alfred sets the coffee and blanket down and pulls him into a hug without a word. just strong, steady arms and that grounding kind of warmth jason hasn’t let himself feel in years. “i don’t know how to fix this,” he whispers.

alfred holds him tighter. “you start with the truth. then you wait. and if she’s worth it—and I suspect she is—you never stop.” jason nods against his shoulder

and for the first time in days, he lets himself cry. sobbing into the older man’s shoulder releasing all the pent up sadness and anger he kept inside for days. “I’ve cleaned blood off your boots, patched holes in your uniform, and stayed up more nights than I can count wondering if you’d make it back. but what worries me most… is how quick you are to believe you don’t deserve good things.. ” he said rubbing jason’s back soothing him, letting himself cry. “i love her so much, alfred— I don’t know how to hold on to good things without breaking them.” jason hiccups “it hurts how much i love her”

and they stay like that for a while, talking about jason’s feelings and what happened causing you to walk away. alfred listening and making him eat and drink to get something in his system. jason slowly getting tired, the comfort he craved slowing his brain down. alfred replacing you for a little while.

you always comforted jason, your touch melted him into a different man. you were his safe place and made him feel completely loved. the unconditional love he never felt before, ‘she’ll come back..’ - ‘ she’s okay, she’s safe’ — he kept repeating to himself, trying any possible way to soothe himself — jason became tried once again, but this time he was willing to sleep. he slept next to the computer, with the blankets alfred placed over him. he got a couple hours in until he woke up, a reminder of what happened.

now five days have gone by—

the coordinates come in just after midnight.

a quiet ping from the batcomputer—courtesy of a city-wide search bruce helped set up. jason had loaded every street cam, signal ping, and facial recognition tool he could, but deep down, he hadn’t really believed he’d find anything.

until now. a small rental apartment in the east end. under a friend’s name. you hadn’t left the city—you’d just gone off the grid. he finally found what he was looking for.

the screen flickered, and your image appeared in the facial recognition software. jason’s heart dropped as he studied the image that was pulled from surveillance footage. your face, usually full of life and fire, looked hollow. the light in your eyes were dimmer than he remembered, like you’d been carrying an unbearable weight for far too long.

your skin was pale, darker circles under your eyes indicating sleepless nights and too many tears shed. lips, once always curled into a small, knowing smile, were now pressed into a thin line. the fight had drained you, and he could see it in every inch of your face.

the camera hadn’t caught the vulnerability posture, but jason knew. you weren’t just physically tired—you were emotionally worn out. the woman he loved wasn’t the same one who had walked out five days ago. this woman, this (y/n), looked like someone who had been pushing through the world alone, all the weight of her pain carried on her shoulders.

he gripped the edge of the desk, eyes locked on the screen, his chest tightening. guilt, sorrow, and a deep sense of regret clawed at him. he had to find her. he had to make things right before it was too late.

he reads the address three times to be sure, then grabs his helmet and jacket and is out the manor doors before bruce can say a word. he jumps on his motorcycle and starts the engine, the loud sound of his tires screeching in the cave as he raced out to find you. he was lighting on the road, dangerously weaving in and out of cars, adrenaline of seeing you alive making him rush even more.

then he makes it to your location. his feet on the pavement, one flight of stairs, then two. his heart is a riot in his chest. his hands are sweating, shaking, cold. an a rush of anxiety washes over him.

what if you slam the door in his face?

what if you don’t even open it?

what if you’re gone again?

what if you don’t want to see him?

but he still knocks. soft at first. then harder.

he hears the lock click. the door creaks open a few inches. you stand there in sweats your friend let you have, eyes puffy, hair lazily in your face like you stopped caring how you looked days ago. and you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

your eyes widen when you see him. and that’s all it takes. jason breaks down.

his legs give out. he drops to his knees like something inside him finally caved in. and before he can even stop himself, he wraps his arms around your waist and presses his face into your stomach, sobbing. not the angry kind. not the kind that comes with yelling and fists through walls.

the kind that’s quiet and raw and scared. the kind that says thank god you’re alive and I’m sorry and I missed you all at once. he was relieved.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m so fucking sorry—please, I didn’t mean it, I was angry, I didn’t know how to say it right, I—god, I thought I lost you—” you freeze. shock, sadness and joy all overwhelming your head. your hands hover for a second, unsure, still hurt, wondering if this is a dream or not.

but then they come down gently, slowly, fingers threading through his hair as you hold him against you. your voice is quiet. “jason…” a melody to his ears.

he can barely speak. “I looked everywhere. I thought something happened. I thought—god, I thought maybe I deserved it. maybe you were better off without me. — I’ve never been this scared in my life.” you listen to him, his words muffled into your stomach. as he plants small kisses in between each sentence— his words rambling and gasping in-between for breaths. “baby.. come here.”

you helped him stand up and stared at his face. “I was angry,” you admit. “you hurt me.” — “i know.. i never wanted to hurt you.”

he leans into you like he needs your heartbeat to breathe.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispers. “I keep ruining everything good in my life. I say the wrong thing. I push too hard. I scare people off. and then when I finally realize what I’ve done, it’s too late.” you pull back just enough to make him look at you. — his eyes are red. wet. desperate.

“you didn’t scare me off,” you whisper. “you hurt me. but I left because I didn’t want to say something I’d regret. I needed time.”

jason swallows. “you should’ve. said something worse. hit me. I deserved it.” — “you don’t get to decide what you deserve, jason. I do.”

a beat. “and I still choose you.” he exhales a breath that sounds like a sob.

his eyes are rimmed red, exhausted, glassy with the tears he’s still trying to keep at bay.

“I went everywhere. the café, the library—the park,” he continues, his arms tightening like he thinks you might slip away again. “every place we made a memory. every place that still smells like you. I kept thinking, maybe I could find one more piece of us that wasn’t broken yet.— I needed to find you. I was losing it, sweetheart. I checked alleys. dangerous places. I—fuck, I was hoping I didn’t find you there but I had to check. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t sit still. I just wanted to see you. to say I’m sorry. to fix it.”

you nod slowly, listening to him. watching the way he talked.

“I knew I took it too far, even when I said it,” jason continues, clutching you tighter. “I was mad at the world, not you. but I threw it all at you because I knew you’d still love me, and that makes me the worst kind of person.”

you press your hand to his cheek, and he leans into it like it’s the only thing keeping him together. “I didn’t mean it,” he whispers. “not a single word. I was angry and afraid and so fucking overwhelmed that I—” his voice cracks. “I lashed out. at the one person who loves me the most. and when you left, I knew. I knew I deserved it.”

you stare at him for a moment. because your silence isn’t punishment—it’s your own unraveling. choosing your next words — “you said I was just a distraction,” you whisper finally, voice shaking despite how hard you try to steady it. “that I make things worse for you. that I don’t understand you, and maybe never will.”

jason flinches. physically recoils at the words he remembers far too well. the words that have been haunting him for the past few days.

you swallow, continuing. “you didn’t just lash out, jason. you hit where you knew it would hurt. you said things I’ve been afraid of ever since we met.”

“I didn’t mean any of it,” he whispers again, desperate. “god, if I could tear the words out of the air and bury them, I would. I would’ve rather taken a bullet than see you walk out that door. I just—” he breathes in deep. “I’m not good with… emotions. with fear. and losing you? that’s the scariest thing in the world to me...”

you nod slowly. “you self-destruct.”— he presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut. “yeah. and I took you down with me.”

silence stretches again, but it’s different now. heavy, but not hostile. like the fog after a storm. “I wasn’t leaving forever,” you whisper. “I just needed time. space. I needed to remember who I was outside of what you said.”

running your fingers through his hair. “I love you, jason. that didn’t change. but you hurt me. bad. I will never stop loving you. i will always come back to you— I needed to know I could still choose to come back on my terms. not because you begged. not because you were falling apart. but because I wanted to.”

his arms tighten around you again, and for the first time since last night, his tears start to fall freely. once again. no restraint. no pride. just a man drowning in his own grief, relieved to be seen, still loved despite everything.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers into your shoulder, his voice small and shaky.

“no,” you say gently. “but you have me. and that means doing better.” and you both stand there for a while. two exhausted people wrapped around each other like maybe the world will stop spinning if you just stay still long enough.

after a while, you hold out your hand. “come inside.” and he does.

the apartment is small, quiet. the kind of place that smells like lavender and old books and something that’s just you. jason steps inside like he’s walking on glass—like the walls might collapse if he breathes too hard.

you close the door behind him. lock it gently. like you’re not locking him out, but keeping the world away.

neither of you says much as you move to the small couch in the living room. he follows you, slow, cautious. sits on the edge like he doesn’t deserve the whole cushion. like if he gets too comfortable, you might change your mind and tell him to leave.

you notice the way he keeps stealing glances at you from the corner of his eye. the way his knee’s bouncing, nervous. his shoulders are curled in, defensive, like he’s ready to run the second you flinch.

finally, you break the quiet. “why are you sitting like you’re afraid I’m gonna hit you?” jason freezes.

you don’t say it to hurt him. you say it softly. genuinely. because you see it—the hesitation, the fear, the way he’s pulling away without moving an inch.

he exhales. “because I don’t wanna fuck this up again.”

“you think being quiet is safer?”

he shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s safe with you anymore. I keep playing every version of this in my head—if I say too much, if I touch you too soon, if I breathe the wrong way—maybe you’ll walk out again.”

you shift toward him slowly. “I didn’t leave to scare you.”

“I know.” he finally meets your gaze. “but it scared me anyway.”

you nod. “and now you’re trying not to want anything.” he doesn’t answer. “jason, you’re allowed to want me.”

his breath catches. you reach out, gently covering his hand with yours. he looks at the contact like it might vanish.

“you’re not scaring me off,” you say, voice soft but sure. “you’re hurting. and so am I. but I didn’t stop loving you. I didn’t forget all the good just because of one night.”

jason’s voice is raw when he answers. “It was more than one night. I’ve been shutting you out for weeks. I didn’t let you in when you were trying. I turned everything into a war when you just wanted peace.”

“yeah. you did.” he flinches. “but,” you continue, tightening your grip on his hand, “you came back. you searched for me. you let yourself fall apart. that means something to me, and im sorry too. i didn’t intend on being away this long. i just felt so lost” he closes his eyes, jaw clenching.

“i’ve never felt this afraid,” he murmurs. “not even when I died.” you squeeze his hand.

“I’m not good at soft,” he admits. “I can be violent, I can be angry, I can be the guy who kicks in doors and breaks bones. but being… gentle? I don’t know how to do that without thinking I’ll screw it up.” you lean forward, pressing your forehead to his.

“you’re being gentle right now.” he nods, barely. and for the first time since that fight, he lets his hand curl into yours. not tight. just enough.

enough to say I want this.

enough to say I still love you.

he presses his lips to your temple, hesitant at first, then lingering. not hungry. not desperate. just present.

“i love you eternally jason, im sorry too, i’m truly sorry for walking away.”

“i love you so much (y/n), so.. so much it’s a unbearable pain i never want to let go of. you are my heart.. my soul.. my person”

he pressed kisses on your hand inbetween words. whispering softly to you, sweet nothings. just wanting to cherish you. “i cried to alfred, cried like some damn kid and I was just—gone. full-on sobbing in his arms like I was ten again.”

(y/n)’s eyes softened, reaching out but letting him keep going.

“I told him everything. told him I screwed up. told him I was scared you’d leave for good. and he just… held me, made me miss your touch.— i’m still sorry,” he whispers

“I know,” you say. “i am too jay”

the two of you sit there, wrapped in the silence that used to hurt—but now, maybe, it’s just healing in disguise. you pulled jason in to cuddle him. he wraps his hands around your body. feeling fortunate to have you, to touch you, to kiss you. he hasn’t been able to breathe normally since you left, but now his chest feels lifted. he’s calmer and exhausted. he can tell you were too. he rubs your body while kissing all over you until he knows your asleep in his arms. watching you sleep so peacefully puts him at ease, helping him drift off into a wonderful slumber he’s been dreaming about for the past five days.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

ahhh :3 i couldn’t do a sad ending— i was going to!!, but he’s been out through to much already!! haha

hope u enjoyed!! im trying out different writing, angst is one im not the best ask but i like trying! it feels repetitive sometimes :p

have a good day / night!! xx

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goorgeousz · 6 hours ago

Text

about time | aaron hotchner

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader summary: it was long since you stopped being just aaron’s plaything, even though he refused to acknowledge it. but everything changes when, after a mass shooting, he almost loses you. content/tw: mass shooting, hostage situation, deaths, r is taken hostage, age gap, situationship (?), criminal minds level of violence, lmk what else, sugarbaby/daddy relationship (barely mentioned) word count: 4k a/n: based on this request! it always takes me so long to write because my brain is fucking broken and i’m apparently incapable of writing something without giving 1-2k of backstory and i end up taking to damn long to finish... i hope this is good, rn i’m kinda hating myself, ngl. anyways enough with the pity party let’s love and make love! speaking of it, i LOVE you all 💗🪽💗🪽 dividers @uzmacchiato

masterlist

“Did you find something to eat? -A.H”

“barely. idk if 200 dollars will do the trick next time”

“All that sass won’t get you far. -A.H.”

“will it get you to finally admit how crazy you are about me?”

As expected, you didn’t get a text back after that.

Your relationship with Aaron was… not conventional. Late night calls, secret dinner dates, hurried sex, expensive gifts and no space for emotional connection.

At least, that’s how he would describe it. He was a busy man, almost twice your age and a big job with even bigger responsibilities than your younger-aged mind couldn’t handle yet – his words.

You saw right through him. He was indeed a busy man, and the age gap wasn’t something one could argue. But his job and responsibilities had absolutely nothing to do with his emotional unavailability. Instead, it had everything to do with him being scared.

Being scared of what it would mean to be in love, to care about someone like that again. It was a kind of fear that only someone who’s had that kind of happiness once just for it to be taken out of them could understand. He couldn’t let himself fall for it again. It was a bait, a trick. A mousetrap from the universe to check if he would dare to be happy again.

Spoiler alert: he wouldn’t.

Sometimes you would feel him getting too interested in what you had to say. Laughing about your jokes. Asking about things you mentioned once and thought he would bother to remember — like the hanging the last episode of your favorite tv show left you on, or that one friend who kept throwing passive-aggressive comments at you and you swore you’d do something about it.

You’d see the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t seeing. You’d feel the feather-like kisses he gave you when he thought you were asleep. You’d hear the words that he so stubbornly refused to let slip out of his mouth. He’s the profiler, true, but you’re not blind.

For that reason you tried, subtly at first, to get him to admit how he truly felt about you. But he always got impatient about not understanding your hints, and discretion was never one of your qualities. Then, you moved to being blunt. Just straight up calling him out, demanding an explanation. That ended up being worse, with him always panicking and leaving you alone, ghosting your texts and declining your calls until you ended up knocking on his door, wearing nothing but a trench coat and ready to take whatever breadcrumb he was willing to give.

So, you settled on a – not so – happy medium, giving him space to swallow his feelings, but always letting him know you wouldn’t be okay with this forever. Usually with a flirty text, or a mock threat, and sometimes even with half-hearted jokes. To which he’d always react with a huff and a roll of his eyes, – and if he was feeling particularly happy, a chuckle.

That morning was one of them. The two of you slept through his first alarm, only getting up too late for him to cook you breakfast – which he insisted had nothing to do with love, just good mannerisms. So, as he dropped you to your campus on his way to Quantico, he slipped two folded dollar bills on your bag as you gave him a goodbye-blowjob right at the library parking lot, and warned you to get something to eat.

Only when you were at the cafeteria across the street did you notice that they were one-hundred-dollar bills each, and you made sure to spend it, just how he’d like.

Trying to stop the twitch of his lips as he read your texts, even though no one was watching him, he put away his phone before he got too distracted by your words, and focused solemnly at the massive stock of reports on his desk.

The next time Aaron looked up from the papers was when Garcia straight up barged into his office, leading him to stop whatever he was doing and look at her. His colleague had a tendency to drama, but she would never barge in like that if it wasn't serious, he knew that. If that wasn’t enough of a tell, the horrified look on her face sure enough did the trick.

“Garcia.”

“Sir, mass shooting. It just happened. Hostage situation, right now. We need to–” he held his hand, already standing up and walking closer to her, gripping her shoulders and just then he noticed they were shaking.

“Penelope, breathe.” he ordered, urging her to calm down in that authoritative tone of his that always gets things done. As a proof, Garcia nodded, breathing slowly until her words stopped sounding slurred. “Where was it?”

“George Washington, at the lecture hall. There are 2 dead there we know of, but no one knows precisely since the building is on lockdown…” and it feels like everything else is on mute, because Garcia said the words.

George Washington, where he got his degree from. To where he was called to give a speech for the students a few months ago. Where he met you. Where he dropped you off this morning.

Where he was going to lose you.

On autopilot he walked away from his office, Penelope trailing right behind him debriefing the case.

“I want all the team there, get the cars ready. We leave in ten. You debrief the rest of them on the ride.” he snaps, not giving space to complaints.

During all seven minutes in which he took off his suit jacket and adjusted the velcro in his kevlar vest, he’s trying to call your phone. Touching your name shining in his screen and placing it on speaker, watching as the selfie you chose for your contact – against his will – blinks until the call falls.

He repeats the cycle all the way down the elevators, his scowl and the death grip he has on his phone being as effective as a shining outdoor in neon letters with a “stay away!” written in capital letters.

As the infamous beeps of his call not being picked up ring in his ear, he tries to calm himself down. He thinks you probably wouldn’t be there. The campus is huge, there was a high chance you weren’t there, exactly. You’d probably be in class right now, with your phone on silent. Maybe you're not in class, but just ignoring his calls as a way of punishing him for not admitting his feelings.

After not having any of his calls answered, while he’s on the passenger seat coordinating with other units, his mind wonders.

Then, he tries to negotiate. If you’re not there, he will admit. If you’re just messing with him and call him back in five minutes, he will give you a tiny lecture, but then will confess his feelings. He swears, he promises, he begs. Nonetheless, you don’t call back.

“What do you got?” Aaron asks the chief of the precinct who first got there, as soon as he gets within earshot. The man held out his hands, introducing himself with a polite nod. “Hothcner. How many dead?” he snaps, clearly not wanting to waste time. Behind him, Reid and Morgan exchange a hesitant look.

The captain stops for just a second, but soon is walking him to the FBI equipped van “Witness counted 5 deaths. We heard other shots since they locked themselves. We were only able to identify 3 of the bodies. 1 of them was sent to the Coroner's office.”

“The rest?” Morgan asked. He stops on his tracks, facing each of the members of the BAU with a dark expression.

“Still in there.”

“The other two.” Reid asks “Do we have their name?”

“Over there.” he points to another van “They’re talking to the witness too.”

Before the officer manages to get the words out, Hotch is already heading to said van. There were too many people. More than 30 students, about 15 employees. Professors and cleaning staff. None of them were you.

“We don’t have the time to speak to all of them.” JJ said, sighing. Hotch frowns, his eyes scanning them.

“We have to.” he says dryly, moving to coordinate the officers in order to get as many depositions as possible, instructing them to go directly at him if they have information that could help build the profile.

Time was flying by, but they got something. One of the witnesses, the only one who managed to get out of the lecture hall before they locked themselves out, saw it. Two shooters, covered up and down. One of them was taller, broader. The other was smaller, thinner and curvier. They thought it was a girl, but that was just guess work.

More than ten of the witnesses agreed that the taller unsub was the head of the operation. They were armed to their teeth, backpacks and machine-guns, two each. None of them saw their faces which was a good sign – As good as something could be in this situation.

If they didn’t want to be seen, they wanted to escape. If they wanted to escape, they needed to negotiate. And if they wanted to negotiate, it was just a matter of time for them to make contact.

Then, they waited.

For a lack of a better word, it was torture.

Aaron felt his limbs go numb, he was close to getting tendinitis from the position of his thumb, hovering over your contact, calling from time to time just to see if you’d pick up. He hoped you’d wake up from a nap, hoarse and amused voice calling him a psychopath for all the missed calls, and would tease him at how obsessed he was. This time, he would agree.

But it never happened, and every time his call went to voicemail, he got even more bitter.

It was safe to say, no one on the team was immune to his snapping. From being ignored and interrupted to straight up yelled at, Emily was the one who stepped up to say something first.

“Hotch, what’s going on?”

“You don’t get it.” he said bluntly, his eyes glued to the last shots of the surveillance camera before the unsubs cut the power of the building.

“Yeah, we do. It’s our…”

“No. No, you don’t.” he snaps at Morgan this time, turning to see the confused and exasperated face of the team, eyeing him like he was a maniac. They were probably right.

Before any of them could say anything, the phone started ringing. Not his, the one from their van. The FBI one, from the number they gave the unsubs through the megaphone from outside.

Everyone rushed there, Garcia ready to trace it and try to get their name.

Hotch was the one who picked it up.

“Hey, there.” the unsub started, his voice syrupy from the other end of the line.

“Aaron Hotchner, I’m with the FBI.” he started, his voice much calmer than he truly was.

“Hmm, fancy.” the unsub mocked “Who else is over there?”

He glanced at the other members, watching if they were paying attention too “SWAT, HRT.”

They giggled “Oh, wow. And the media?”

Hotch sighed “Yes, on live. You have some people there with you, right? Want to let them go, so we can solve this racionally?” he offered, his voice soft and polite.

“Not really, no.” the unsub hummed, his voice carefree. Hotch bit the inside of his cheek to keep the composure.

“They’re innocent people. We shouldn’t let them get hurt, don’t you think?” he tried again. From the other line, they clicked their teeth.

“Not innocent, but I suppose I understand why you’d think that.”

Hotch’s ear perked up, immediately analysing their words “I don’t have all the facts. Why don’t you tell me?”.

“You’re right, you don’t.” the unsub snapped “So don’t get in my way.”

“I can’t do that.” he answered matter-of-factly.

“Worth a try.” the unsub chuckled “I want to negotiate. Is that the correct word? Just kidding, I know it is.”

“Perfect, let’s negotiate.”

“I want to leave, and I don’t want anyone following me. I want you to send all those fancy officers home, and I want to live.”

“That’s understandable.” he hums, trying to sound as open as possible “But I need you to release those hostages.”

“Do you think I’m dumb?” they yelled, and Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes in fear.

“Worth a try.” he muttered, and the call went quiet. Aaron looks at the team, confused. Just before he speaks again, he hears something. A laugh. A loud, humorous laugh.

“You quoted me, man. You’re funny. I fuck with you.”

Aaron’s eyebrows are arched so high they’re almost reaching his hairline.

“Since I like you so much, I’ll tell you what. Make another offer, a reasonable one. And I’ll hear it.”

“Give me the name of the ones you killed. And give me proof the rest of them are alive.”

“Hm.” quiet again “Counter offer, I tell you how many were killed and then, I’ll give you a proof of life.”

A minute passes with the call on mute. Garcia traced it, it’s one of the hostage’s phones. One of the witnesses recalls seeing them.

“Agent Hotchner.” a voice sings, and Hotch unmutes the call. Dozens of people surround him, trying to listen to the information closely.

“I’m right here.”

“So, before anything, do you want to take a guess?”

“Not really.” Hotch says between gritted teeth, patience hanging by a thread. The unsub laughs, again. “Fine by me. Here we go: we have 7 casualties.”

The room stands still, looking at each other. It’s more than what they thought. If anyone saw Hotch’s fingers starting to shake, no one made a comment.

“Now the other part.” Hotch says quietly.

“Fine.” the unsub says, and they hear a few thuds, something falling and a loud cry. Aaron wants to interrupt, but he knows better.

“H-Hi. I’m Meghan.” a lady says between sobs, and she sounds young.

“Meghan, I’m Aaron Hotchner. I’m with the FBI. You’re going to be okay.”

“I’m scared. Please, hurry.”

“Meghan, listen. This is really important, do you recognize them?” he urges, controlling his voice to sound reassurance.

“Time’s up!” the previous voice sounds from afar, and the next thing they hear is the sound of shooting, and for what Hotch could count, they emptied their clip. “That was number 8.” the unsub speaks, clearly amused.

“How is that proof of life?” Aaron snapped, not caring if he sounded angry.

“Can’t you hear it?” they asked, and only then he paid attention: echoing through the call there were cries, sobs, screaming. He couldn’t count how many people, but a good amount.

“Every 5 minutes you deny what I want, I’ll shoot another one. Toodle-oo.”

And it was then, right before the call ended, that he heard it.

It was muffled, distant, but for him it was clear as the day: your voice. Even through the robotic sound of the phone call, he would be able to recognize you. At first he thought it was his name, a cry for help. But it was only when the call was hung up that he managed to figure it out.

“Ethan, don’t!”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It took them little to no time to realize that Ehan was the unsub, not a hostage. Garcia runs his name and records, finding out he was kicked out of college for assaulting students. He was in one of your classes, and if he were still a student, he would’ve been in that lecture hall as well. Though in the end it didn’t really matter, because he ended up there anyway.

The other unsub was girlfriend, Keira, and they refer to each other as partners in crime. She felt her boyfriend’s expulsion personally, and by breaking into their private chats, Penelope read that they planned to take revenge on everyone who contributed to it. Which, by their means, meant everyone who didn’t help Ethan.

Ethan had violent and narcissistic traits, including sex crimes records. Keira, on the other hand, matched the profile by her devoted submission to Ethan, aggressive posts on social media and the fact that, growing up, she was the main suspect of the mysterious deaths of the pets in her neighborhood. It wasn’t confirmed, but she moved out shortly after that.

“We have to make them turn against each other.” JJ asked. The team gathered to discuss their plan quickly, not wanting to dare to have more deaths.

“There’s something wrong.” Reid said, interrupting them.

“What is it?”

“She recognized them, Hotch.” he said, quietly. “She saw their faces. You know what that means.”

He did know.

With a shaky breath, he answered “We’ve dealt with that before.”

“Let me talk to them. One last time.”

“Reid…” Rossi warned. They all catched on: Hotch knew you. But under those circumstances, no one dared to ask him the nature of your relationship. Spencer and David exchanged a glance, silently weighing their risks. It could make things worse, but right now there wasn’t another scenario. Especially with the minutes passing, sooner or later the number of deaths would rise.

“Hotch.” Reid insisted, firmly this time. Aaron was helpless, and his eyes showed it as he looked at the youngest member, trying to see a hint of uncertainty. Not finding any of it – or at least not enough for him to be untrustworthy –, he agreed with a sharp nod.

They gathered around the phone, and dialed the same phone number that called them. The phone rang only about 3 times before a voice answered.

“Just in time.” Ethan said, his voice condescending “Want to hear number 9?”

“No.” Reid said bluntly, looking Hotch in the eyes “The coast is clear, you can leave now. Leave the hostages there, don’t kill anyone else.” he spat fastly. The whole team widened their eyes, confusedly murmuring. Reid held his fingers high, warning them to listen.

On the other end of the line, Ethan panicked. He stuttered, sighed, and tried to play it off. Before anything else could happen, Spencer turned off the call, rising to his feet in a minute.

“It was a trap, they’re not planning on escaping.” he explained, moving with the team on his tail closer to the school.

After that it all happened fast, they coordinated with SWAT to burst into the building, the snipers on spot ready to shoot them. They’ve seen it before, something like that. The unsubs didn’t actually consider surrendering. The negotiating was nothing more than a strategy, to win time and to play with the authorities. To give them a sense of power, just to rip it off their hands.

They offered exchanging the hostages for their freedom, knowing no one would give them that. They would kill them all, and it would be the authorities fault. Contributory negligence.

Getting the unsubs by surprise, they managed to eliminate them without any other casualties. Reid’s theory proved right after they barged in. Almost 40 alive, 12 dead. They lied, planning to kill all of the hostages before the police came in.

Aaron wasn’t looking at any of them.

He scanned the crowd quickly, it took him less than 5 seconds to analyse the scene, to count the bodies laying on the ground. His subconscious registered the whole picture, but he was only looking for you. Amongst their faces of fear, the amount of people crumpled on the small stage, like a horror play you were all part of. He wasn’t ready to look for your body, not yet.

It took you little to no time to stand out, your face pale and your eyes blank, whole body in shock as you made your way out of the hostages piled up. He saw you walking, his legs working faster than everything else, making their way to find you.

The second you heard his voice calling your name, it was like you were taken out of a trance, blinking confusedly and only having time to look him in the eyes before your body crashed against his. Hotch wrapped your arms around you, his whole torso covering you up like a human blanket. His hands were on your head, your shoulders, your face.

You had blood all over your face, but it wasn’t yours. He held you in his arms, kissing your temples and shutting his eyes close as he felt your body shaking as you sobbed. He hated that he was hearing you cry, but he loved that he was hearing you at all.

Unfortunately, as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t just stand there in the middle of everything, hugging you close until all the panic left his body. He was on duty, after all.

But there was no way he would just leave you by yourself too. Instead, he helped the victims, guiding them out and taking them to paramedics. He coordinated the officers, the forensic team and the other FBI members at the scene. All that with you right under his arm, shielding you against everything and everyone.

The only time Aaron let go of you, was for the paramedics to check out on you. And even then, he didn’t leave your side.

After all the rush eased down, and all of the more injured victims were taken to hospitals, Rossi walked by, giving you a sympathetic look before patting Hotch on the shoulder.

“I got this. Go rest.”

Just another proof of how shaken he was, Aaron just nodded thankfully, agreeing without a fight to let things go for the night. He glanced at his team, making sure they were okay. Apart from the teasing glances, they seemed happy and relieved. With a small smile, he waved at them, turning his attention back to you and only you.

As the sun began to set, the headlights of the police cars and the streets shone against your face, and he frowned at the dried blood on the left side of your face.

“I thought I was going to lose you.” he said quietly, wiping your forehead with a piece of wet cloth from the van.

“Almost.” you tried to joke, but your voice sounded weak and wobbly. He gulped, his eyes solemnly focused on getting you cleaned.

“You took a serious risk by yelling his name.”

“I thought it was going to help.”

“You shouldn’t have.” he scolded.

“Did it help?”

“Yes.” he answered, because he realized that you needed to hear it. And because it was true “But don’t ever do that again.”

“I don’t plan to.” you joke again. Again, it doesn’t land.

“Why didn’t they shoot you?” he asked, this time quieter than the others, and looking you straight in the eye.

“He was going to, I was the next. You got there first. You saved me, Aaron.” you explained. Aaron nodded once, then twice. Then a third time, and he kept nodding like he wanted to confirm, he wanted to engrave it in his brain that he did save you, you were safe. Safe and sound and in his arms again. He wanted his mind to believe it, and his body too.

You saw the moment it settled: the threat was gone, you were alive. His stoic and stone expression melted, giving space to raw emotion. He was angry, and he was happy, and sad and relieved, and above everything he was in love.

‘Love’ was written in bold shining letters in his eyes. He grabbed your now clean – barely – face with his hand, cupping your cheeks and bringing his lips onto yours. He kissed you like his life depended on it, and on some levels it did. His tongue was on yours, he tasted like coffee and salt and life.

You kissed him back, his hands roaming all over your torso, your hands planted on his chest. It felt like the whole word stopped the moment you felt him whispering your name against your lips, urging you to never leave his side, ever again.

He kissed you, and you tasted your tears as he did. You smiled as his team wolf whistled in the back, and you giggled as he smiled too. It was traumatic, and it was sad. But you needed that, you needed that thread of life you found with him. You had the right to do so. You were alive, and you were his, and for now, it was all that mattered.

taglist: all hotch @winyourheartemma @marina468 all cm @s0urw00lf @deeninadream @khxna @bernelflo @pastelpinkflowerlife

#aaron hotchner #criminal minds #fanfiction #aaron hotchner x reader #bau!reader #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotchner angst #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #angst #angst with a happy ending #light angst #hurtcomfort #criminal minds fic #criminal minds hotch #criminal minds angst #criminal minds fanfic

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rainedravens · 29 days ago

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"holy shit they finally confessed, what comes next--"

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geraskierfanficprompts · 3 days ago

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Prompt 151

Jaskier is cursed. He's completely lost all sound. He can't speak, sing, hum, whistle, hell even his gasps, laughs, and sobs are silent. There is only one cure. Geralt must perform, like a proper bard, until he earns as many coins as Jaskier's age. Easy, Geralt thinks. He just has to whine and bitch until enough sorry sods give him 30 to 40 coins. If he tells the sob story of Jaskier, songbird of the continent, losing his voice, they're sure to throw in a coin per person. However when he says this to Jaskier, Jaskier's face pales. He scribbles down the starts of a conversation in his notebook immediately. "You have to earn my age?" "Yes? What's wrong with that?" "...Geralt.. I'm not 40." 50, then? He looks quite well for a human that age, Geralt thinks. Hardly looks 30. "Geralt." "Yes, Jaskier?" "Geralt, I'm in my hundreds."

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knowledgeableknitter · 10 days ago

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The Walk Home

A little short and sweet one-shot.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you (I think it's actually gender neutral? please let me know if I'm wrong)

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: After Bucky walks you home for weeks, you finally confront him about the deeper feelings neither of you has dared to name. What begins as uncertainty and hesitation slowly gives way to honesty, vulnerability, and a long-overdue kiss.

Trigger warnings: I don't think there are any? This is just fluff, guys. One kiss. (That's all you get from me today, lol)

Author's Note: Apology fluff for the emotional wreckage of Chapter 7 of my "New Avengers" series, which also dropped today.

Masterlist

You’d initially found it a little strange that Bucky Barnes, the former assassin turned reluctant hero, chose to walk you home every evening after work. At first, you chalked it up to quiet politeness, something instinctive in him. He was a soldier, so looking out for people came naturally to him.

But over time, something shifted.

What started as short, polite conversations turned into shared laughter and lingering glances. The space beside you began to feel like it belonged to him. And though you never said it out loud, you started looking forward to the time you spent together.

After each mission debriefing, he’d be there, waiting. Always the last to leave, always lingering just long enough for you to notice. You found yourself stalling too, taking your time packing up, heart beating just a little faster in anticipation as you waited for him to say it.

“I’ll walk you,” he’d murmur, almost casually.

And every time, you’d nod like it didn’t mean anything, like you hadn’t spent the entire day hoping he’d still be there when the meeting ended. You told yourself it was just a habit, just Bucky being kind. But as days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, you stopped believing your own excuses.

He became a quiet, calming constant. And each night, his presence lit something in your chest that you tried and failed to ignore.

Once or twice, you’d tried to poke at it, just enough to see if he’d give something away. But he always brushed it off with a chuckle and that disarming grin that was impossible not to return. “Just making sure you don’t get into trouble,” he’d say, like it was nothing. But it didn’t feel like nothing.

You started to notice the small things, the way his eyes would flick to your lips when he thought you weren’t looking, the way his fingers would brush against yours at crosswalks, the way his voice softened when he asked about your day.

He never said anything more, and you never pushed. But the tension between you started to build, quiet but persistent. You could feel it in the air, in the pauses between words, in the way your body leaned just a little closer to his each night. It was subtle, but undeniable.

Still, he insisted there was nothing to it. "Because I’m a nice guy," he’d say with that same familiar smile.

But you knew better.

You knew the way your heart reacted wasn’t friendship. You felt it in the way you looked forward to the end of each day, in the warmth that stayed long after you said goodnight, in the way you found yourself imagining what it might feel like if he finally closed the distance.

And yet, you said nothing either. Maybe because you were afraid to lose what you already had. Or maybe because your feelings had grown so slowly, so quietly, that by the time you realized how deep they ran, you were already in too deep to risk it.

You told yourself he’d make the first move, sure he’d be the one to speak up, but he never did.

Until finally, one night, the tension between you became too much for you to ignore.

The sun had already dipped below the horizon, leaving the streets washed in soft orange and fading violet. You walked at your usual pace, side by side, surrounded by the low hum of passing cars and distant city sounds. But tonight, something was off.

Bucky was quieter than usual. His shoulders were tight beneath his jacket, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his gaze fixed ahead like he was miles away. You kept sneaking glances at him, noting the hard line of his jaw, the crease in his brow, the restlessness in how he moved. It was subtle, but it made your chest tighten.

You could feel your own nerves rising, the words you’d kept locked away for weeks sitting heavy on your tongue. You’d rehearsed what to say so many times, but now that the moment was here, it didn’t feel any easier.

Still, you knew you couldn’t keep pretending nothing was happening.

You slowed to a stop under a streetlamp, the light casting a soft glow across the sidewalk. The sound of Bucky’s steps continued for a few paces before he noticed you weren’t beside him. He turned, concern flickering across his face as he stepped back toward you.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice low and careful.

You hesitated, searching his face for any hint that he already understood what this was about. But all you saw was guarded confusion, and your heart beat faster.

“Bucky,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt, “we need to talk.”

He shifted, visibly uneasy, his posture growing stiff. “About what?”

You crossed your arms, trying to keep your composure. “This. You walking me home every night. You act like it’s just something you do out of habit, but it’s not, is it? I just... I need to know what this really is.”

His eyes widened slightly. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. He looked away, drawing in a slow breath, then exhaled hard. His jaw flexed, and he shifted again, like he was trying to ground himself.

“I told you,” he said finally, voice quiet but tense. “I’m just being a friend. Making sure you’re safe. It’s not a big deal.”

You stared at him, your patience thinning. “You call this friendship?” you asked, trying not to sound too sharp. “Every night. You ask about my day like it matters. You brush your hand against mine like you don’t even realize you’re doing it.” Your voice softened. “You look at me like...”

Bucky froze. His breath caught. His shoulders tensed even more, but he didn’t look away. “Like what?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You stepped toward him, close enough now to see every shift in his expression. “Like you want more,” you said gently.

A beat of silence passed, stretching longer than it should have. You could almost hear the pause in the air around you.

He didn’t speak.

His gaze stayed on yours, but he looked like he was caught between wanting to move forward and wanting to run. Then, slowly, his eyes dropped to the ground. He took a small step back, dragging a hand through his hair.

“I…” His voice cracked slightly, barely more than breath. The hesitation hit you like a punch, because you knew he felt it, but he was still holding back.

Afraid he might pull away completely, you shook your head and stepped in with quiet resolve. “Don’t,” you said, voice softer than your racing heart, but steadier than the storm behind your ribs. You met his eyes and held them. “Don’t tell me you don’t feel this. I see it in the way you look at me, in the way you're always there, even when I don’t ask.”

Your voice cracked a little, the weight of your feelings pushing past your restraint. Still, you kept going. “Are you really going to stand there and tell me none of it means anything? That you don’t feel anything at all?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He looked down, his throat bobbing with a hard swallow. His hands balled into fists at his sides, his body rigid with tension. When he finally looked up again, something in his expression had changed, like he’d stopped fighting and started facing it.

“I’m trying,” he said, voice low and rough. “I’m trying not to mess this up. Not to make it worse.”

Your chest tightened. “Worse?” you repeated quietly, the word stinging. You let out a tired breath, shaking your head. “Bucky, it’s already complicated. You walk me home every night like it’s nothing. You act like this doesn’t mean anything. But it does. And it’s driving me crazy not knowing if I’m the only one who feels it.”

You stopped, breath catching before you said too much. The silence stretched. You looked away, heat rising to your face, suddenly exposed and unsure.

But Bucky didn’t back off this time. Slowly, he stepped closer. The tension in his shoulders eased just slightly, and when he looked at you again, his walls were down. His eyes were clear, open.

“I care for you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “More than I’ve let on. You’re not imagining it.” He paused, then added, “But I’m scared. I haven’t let myself feel something like this in a long time. And the thought of screwing it up terrifies me.”

The honesty in his voice hit you hard. It cut through your frustration and settled into something gentler. You nodded slightly, breath catching as the weight of the moment finally settled between you.

“So,” you said, voice soft but sure, “you’ve been walking me home every night because you’re afraid?”

Bucky let out a short, dry laugh, more of an exhale. “Yeah. That’s pretty much it.”

You shook your head with a small smile, your chest lightening. “Well... if you’re going to keep walking me home, maybe it’s time we face our fears and stop pretending.”

His gaze lifted again, surprised by the shift in your voice. He looked at you like he was still catching up, like he wasn’t sure it was okay to hope.

“So...” he said slowly, carefully, “what happens now?”

You took a step closer, closing the last bit of distance between you. Your voice was soft, steady. “Now?” You smiled. “Now you kiss me. And we figure out the rest together.”

He looked at you for a long moment, breath shallow, something shifting in his expression. The hesitation faded from his eyes, replaced by the determination you’d been hoping to see. He stepped forward slowly, carefully, as if the moment might break if he moved too fast.

When his fingers reached for you, the rough pads of them brushing your jaw, you felt a quiet spark jump across your skin. You leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut as his hand cupped your cheek, his thumb drawing a slow line along your cheekbone. His touch was steady, but you could feel how hard he was trying to keep it that way.

You breathed him in: leather, faint cedar and sandalwood cologne, and something underneath that was just him. His breath warmed your lips as he paused, inches away.

Then he kissed you.

It began soft and tentative, the kind of kiss that asked rather than assumed. Your lips parted instinctively, inviting him in, letting him know how much you wanted this too. The kiss deepened naturally, gently, like neither of you wanted to rush it but couldn’t keep holding back either.

Your fingers found his jacket, gripping it lightly as you leaned in closer. The tension that had hung between you for so long slowly melted away with each passing second.

His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you in. You felt his hand press gently against your lower back, anchoring you. A quiet sound escaped him, something between a sigh and a breath of relief. It mirrored your own.

You let your fingers drift up to his neck, settling behind it, where his hair was soft. His shoulders, always so tense, finally relaxed beneath your touch.

Everything else fell away: the traffic in the distance, the city lights, the chill in the air. For a moment, it was just you and him, your breaths syncing, your hearts pounding in rhythm.

When the kiss broke, it was slow, like neither of you really wanted it to end. He rested his forehead against yours, and you stayed like that, eyes closed, breathing together.

When you opened your eyes, he was already looking at you, walls down, clear affection in his sapphire eyes.

A small, breathless laugh slipped out before you could stop it. You touched his jaw lightly, fingers brushing over the stubble there. “So,” you murmured, half-smiling, “does this mean you’re officially walking me home now?”

Bucky let out a quiet laugh of his own, his arm still around you. His eyes warmed, and the weight he'd carried for so long seemed to lift a little.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low but sure. “I guess it does.”

The two of you began to walk again, hand in hand. The silence between you wasn’t awkward or filled with things left unsaid. It felt easy and natural.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like you were walking beside someone pretending not to care. It felt like the beginning of something real.

Tag list: @lovely-seb @calwitch @its-in-the-woods

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nottellingofname · 2 days ago

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Satoru Gojo Called For Help

Call #08 - Boy started reading ☼

Y/N! Y/N! THERE you are. Sweet emotional curses, I thought you were dead!

...I was gone for three days, not lost in the Bermuda Triangle.

Okay but in emotionally unstable teen years, that’s like... a decade. I’ve been pacing. In socks. Like that one Paramore song.

You own socks? Somehow I imagined you barefoot. In a hoodie. Causing problems on purpose.

...Honestly not inaccurate. Anyway—I couldn’t wait. I caved. I went to the library. Borrowed the books.

..Oh.

...Just ‘oh’? That’s it? No gasp? No pearl clutching?

I mean—cool. Very studious of you. Gold star for literary commitment. It’s just...

...Just?

...I kind of liked reading aloud. Not to you, specifically. Just, you know. To the void. Like I’m auditioning for Love And Deepspace.

...You miss being my vampire bedtime narrator?

I didn’t say that.

...But you practically did.

...Okay fine, yes. A little. But only because it made me feel like a tragic Victorian child.

God, I missed you. You’re so weird.

You say that like it’s not my brand.

...So? Are we still friends? Or are you too heartbroken that I cheated on you with the public library?

Hmmm. I suppose I can forgive you. What chapter are you on?

Eclipse, bro. They’re about to start training with the wolves. If you spoil who’s behind the newborn army, I will physically implode.

Relax. I love that part too. The movie nailed it. Very ‘angsty military boot camp but everyone’s hot and emotionally unavailable.’ Sounds like my spotify daylist name.

...You scare me sometimes.

...Oh sh—oh no.

What? What happened? Did Edward do something? Did Jacob take his shirt off again?

No—I just spilled coffee. All over the helpline keyboard. It’s... it’s a matcha massacre. There’s foam in the function keys. I think I heard the F8 key scream.

...Should I call someone? IT? The Vatican?

No. No. I have to disappear. Burn the evidence. Pretend this conversation never happened. I was never here. You were never here. DELETE THE TAPES.

Wait—Y/N?! Should I—

Gotta go BYE.

END OF CALL: 3 Minutes, 23 Seconds

Call Satoru Gojo?

Taglist:

@pickledsoda @yamato-my-beloved @yoontaedotin @16thwriter @vehuzzzz @raining4food @sukunaslilsocks @sparqvls @nanamisss @frzzyhairr @blessedblemishes @oneofthesevensins @ppyn @blitziwitch @linaaeatsfamilies @qardasngan @tinawhynot @yuhig-blog @winkous-av @bellovesgojo @edensrose

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yimpressive · 3 days ago

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𝙸 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎-[TEASER!]

{𝒻}You had always told yourself that your childhood best friend was super annoying. But what happens when he comes back from Japan looking extra... Mature. Now you're stuck acting like nothing has changed despite your growing feelings.

RELEASE DATE: TBD

TEASER WORD COUNT: 265

ESTIMATED WORD COUNT: 27k

READ HERE

nishimura riki x fem!reader Fluff, angst, ex-childhood best friends to lovers, slow burn, underage drinking, highschool au, unrequited love, mentions of toxic relationships, mild cursing, brother!Jay, sister!Juun, Heeseung (enhypen), Ryujin (itzy), Jiyu (KiiKii)

Playlist: Hurt- Newjeans, For Lovers- Lamp, Light- wave to earth, bags- Clairo, I Know You- Faye Webster, Heart Attack- Chuu, Love me or Leave me- DAY6, Hello?- Clairo, What is Love?- TWICE, Dreams Come True- aespa, etc..

“Oh my gosh! Hyunjin you are not going to believe this” Your mom is suddenly sitting on the edge of your bed, clearly holding back her excitedness.

“What? ‘Cus if it's another 10 dollar bingo win, for the last time I. Do. Not. Care.” You stay laying in your messed up bed, not glancing up at your mom, not expecting her “exciting” news to be very exciting.

“Mai and her kids are finally moving back. Gosh dang it, I can't believe it! I missed them so stinkin’ much” Your mom giggles, “You and Riki are going to have so much fun. I remember you two being so close”

You look up at your mom after she says that, you kind of just stare at her. Riki? You hadn't seen him in like 6 years, and you didn't text him very often.

You try not to think too much about it, considering that he probably acted like every other 17 year old boy in high school. Annoying, overly flirty, either reeks of B.O. or nasty smelling cologne, and cocky as shit.

Even though you hated the thought of that… you couldn't help but be a little excited to see your best friend again.

“Hyunjin! Are you even listening to me? How many times do I have to say it? Get off the phone.”

“Sorry sorry… I was just…” You trail off, still processing the news. “Yeah, I'm excited” But you can't help but think, are you even very excited? What if he's changed? What if he's mean? Cold? Hates you now? Or even worse… hot?

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gigiii1sblog · 19 hours ago

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I LOVE YOU, IM SORRY 002

Chapter Two: I wanna be yours.

warning: fluff, angst, sexual content, and more!

MATT:

I don’t usually have people over.

Not like this.

I’ve had friends come by, sure. People crash on the couch after parties. Nick’s always dragging someone in. Chris doesn’t even say their names anymore. But her?

I cleaned my room for two hours before she came over.

Didn’t even realize I was doing it.

Wiped down the desk, lit a candle I didn’t know I had, switched the playlist like five times before settling on one she sent me.

She texted me “here :)” and I stared at it for a second longer than I should’ve. Took a deep breath. Tried to act casual even though my heart was doing this annoying thing where it sped up just from the sight of her name.

When I opened the door, she was standing there in flare leggings, a small shoulder bag I believe and one of those oversized sweatshirts she always wears. Barefaced. Hair pulled up. Holding a drink she brought me without asking what I liked.

“You okay?” she asked, stepping inside.

I nodded.

“Yeah. You just, look nice.”

She smiled like she didn’t even try to. That’s what kills me.

She walked into my room like she’d been there before.

Not nosy. Just… comfortable. Her fingers traced the edge of my bookshelf, hovered over a few random vinyls on my dresser. She picked up a photo of me and my brothers and grinned.

“You were cute,” she said.

“Were?” I asked.

She looked over her shoulder, smile soft. “You still are.”

I had to sit down.

Actually had to sit because my knees didn’t feel like cooperating with the rest of me.

She sat next to me on the bed like it was nothing. Pulled her legs up, leaned back on her hands. The air shifted.

She noticed my hands were fidgeting and gently reached over, resting hers on top of mine. That small. That simple.

“You’re nervous,” she whispered.

I didn’t answer. Just looked at our hands.

“You don’t have to be.”

“I don’t do this,” I finally said.

She tilted her head. “Have girls over?”

I shook my head. “Let people in.”

She didn’t tease me. Didn’t joke.

Just leaned her head against my shoulder and whispered, “Okay.”

And in that second, I think I loved her.

We didn’t kiss that night.

Didn’t even touch much after that.

She stayed late. Talked with me about music and memories and the way L.A. felt lonelier at night. Told me about her first heartbreak. I told her about the time I broke my arm jumping off the roof to impress a girl who didn’t care.

We laughed.

We kept the lights low.

We shared space like it was sacred.

And when she left, I stood at the door for way too long. Watching her walk to her car, half-hoping she’d turn around. She didn’t. But she texted before she pulled away.

“Thanks for letting me in.”

I stared at it for a while.

Then typed back:

“Don’t leave.”

Deleted it.

Typed again:

“You’re kinda stuck with me now.”

She replied with a heart.

And somehow, that was enough.

Y/N:

I wasn’t sure what to expect when he invited me over.

Matt Sturniolo didn’t seem like the type of guy who let people into his room, let alone me. We’d been texting for weeks now, good conversations, stupid jokes, music links, voice memos at 2 a.m. that I’d replay like they were songs, but this felt different.

This was real. His space. His silence.

I brought him a drink I hoped he liked. He opened the door with a shy little grin and stepped aside to let me in without saying much. Typical Matt. Always a little quiet when he doesn’t know what to do with his feelings.

I followed him down the hall, trying not to overthink everything. And then I stepped into his room.

And I smiled.

It wasn’t messy, But it looked lived-in. Vinyls stacked in one corner. His desk had a closed journal and pens scattered across it and a candle that smelled like cedarwood burning low. The lighting was warm and soft, not trying too hard, just enough to feel like I belonged there.

But it was the stuffed animals that got me.

Sitting neatly in the corner of his bed. A small pug. Worn like its been there for years.

“Don’t say anything,” he muttered, already catching me staring.

“I’m not,” I laughed, walking over and gently picking up the pug. “He’s cute. What’s his name?”

He hesitated. “…Mr Wrinkleton.”

I smiled and looked at him. He looked embarrassed, like I’d found some secret version of him no one else got to see. But I didn’t laugh. I didn’t tease. I just held the pug to my chest and sat on the edge of the bed.

Something shifted in the air after that.

It wasn’t awkward. Just quiet. Comfortable.

He played me some songs he liked, and we took turns holding the aux. Talked about lyrics that hit too hard. Artists we swore only we understood. He told me about a couple concerts he’s been to with his brothers. I told him how music kept me sane when everything else felt too loud.

At one point, he sat beside me and I thought he might kiss me. But he didn’t.

He didn’t try anything. Didn’t lean too close.

Just sat there, shoulder brushing mine, hands in his lap like he didn’t want to make the wrong move.

And that’s when I realized:

He wasn’t thinking about doing anything further.

He was just thinking about me.

Me, in his space.

Me, playing with his stuffed pug.

Me, listening to his playlists like I was reading pages out of his diary.

And something about that made my heart ache a little. In the best way.

Later that night, when I left, he didn’t say much. Just walked me to the door, looked at me for a second like he wanted to say more.

Then he whispered, “You can come back. Anytime.”

I nodded.

Smiled.

“I think I will.”

And I meant it.

Because that was the night I started falling, not for the idea of him, not for the text messages or playlists or his beautiful eyes.

But for Matt.

The boy with the quiet laugh and stuffed animals and shy hands.

The boy who made me feel like I could breathe.

MATT: The Next Day

She looked different in the daylight.

Not drastically. Just… clearer.

Her hair was still tied back the way it was last night, long sleeves covering her hands, But something about her sitting in my passenger seat, windows rolled down, music on low, it made everything real.

We hadn’t stopped texting since she left last night. She sent me a playlist by the time she got home. I sent her a photo of my breakfast this morning with a stupid “u would’ve made it better” caption. Somehow that turned into us deciding to grab lunch.

Now we were sitting outside a taco truck, burritos in hand, salsa on the side, and she was making fun of the way I ate and I’m not gonna lie her hot sauce tolerance is terrifying, but I couldn’t stop staring.

“You dissect your burrito,” she said through a laugh. “Like you’re afraid of it.”

I shook my head. “I just don’t trust how hot they make the sauce.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “You’re afraid of ketchup, Matt.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is, actually.”

And when she leaned over, thumb swiping a dot of salsa from my cheek, casual like she didn’t just make my heart short-circuit, I didn’t even pretend to play it cool. I just looked at her.

Because it wasn’t even about the burritos or the playlist, it was the way it felt so easy. Like I’d known her longer than I had. Like I wanted to know her longer than I planned.

⸻

“Come inside for a bit?” I asked when we pulled into my driveway.

She hesitated for a second. “Won’t your brothers be home?”

“Yeah,” I shrugged. “But they’re just Nick and Chris. You’ve met ‘em. This time you’ll actually know me.”

She smiled, soft and warm. “Okay.”

Nick was half-sprawled across the couch, playing something on the TV, popcorn tucked under one arm. He didn’t even look up until we came in.

Then he blinked. Stared. Stood.

“…Wait.”

Chris walked in from the hallway, hoodie up, rubbing his eye like he’d just woken up from a nap.

Nick squinted at her. “Is that—”

Chris’s voice cut in. “Yo.. wait. That’s her. That’s the girl from the party.”

YN gave a little wave. “Hi again.”

Nick looked between the two of us, and his jaw dropped just slightly. “Wait. Matt. You’ve been talking to her?”

Chris raised his eyebrows, grinning. “No way. Is that why you’ve been acting all soft?”

I gave them both a look. “Don’t start.”

“No, I’m just—” Nick turned to her, wide-eyed. “We literally met you at the party and had no idea you were talking to Matt. We just thought he got possessed or something, he’s been smiling at his phone and playing love songs in the shower.”

Chris laughed, half in disbelief. “I thought you were having an identity crisis.”

YN laughed too, hiding it behind her hand. “Guess the mystery’s solved.” Chris looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Damn, Matty.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t.”

“No, I mean it. I thought you were gonna keep writing poems about her in secret. Proud of you, man.”

Nick choked on a laugh.

“Your write poems?” YN asked eyes filled with curiosity.

“Absolutely not.”

Chris clapped me on the back. “Congratulations, bro. You finally found a girl who can tolerate you.”

I wanted to be annoyed. But she was laughing, looking at me like I was the only person in the room.

Then he turned to her. “Welcome to the family, sister-in-law.”

I rolled my eyes, but she looked at me like she already belonged here. Like this moment, the teasing, the noise, the awkward introductions, didn’t scare her off.

It kinda made me want to kiss her right there.

𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁ੈ❀

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